A Fortunate Misfortune
by thenuminous
Summary: At times, misfortunes are fortunes in disguise. Two women do not realize this when they are stricken by an unforeseen accident. This is the story of their misadventure, of the mysterious ways of fate, and of the waywardness of love, for it often blooms unexpectedly and in places it seemingly should not. Narcissa/Hermione. Rated T for now.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

 _"Sometimes life has a cruel sense of humor,_

 _giving you the thing you always wanted_

 _at the worst time possible."_

 _\- Lisa Kleypas_

* * *

A small and plump mediwizard with rosy cheeks grinned wildly as a couple entered the room. This mediwizard wore mismatched socks, and his stubble had grown immensely. His breath stank slightly of alcohol, as his relationship with his wife was deteriorating. Last night, he had caught her in the arms of another man. Consequently, he was rather scatterbrained and ill-prepared for work.

The couple that had entered were both fair-haired, and judging from the luxurious dark robes they wore, they belonged to the upper echelons of society. The woman was tall, lean and ethereally beautiful. She wore a thin frown on her delicate features, while her husband donned a broad smile; his white teeth sparkled under the bright light of the clinical room, and his large hand was wrapped firmly around his wife's waist, almost predatorily.

"Are you ready?" asked the mediwizard.

The witch did not respond. Her face had frozen and her soft skin—already pale—grew paler. However, her husband nodded and his smile widened. He clenched her waist harder and she flinched.

That night, in an opulent chamber, the couple slept. The woman's eyes were wide, wet and starry. Her husband's hand slid across her abdomen and she grimaced. Beneath the tender skin of her abdomen, in her womb life was beginning.

And she wondered if she had wanted this life.

And she worried if she would be a good mother.

And if he would fail to be a good father, _again_.

Whilst adrift in her thoughts, a pearly tear fell from her silver eyes. So, this was it? Another heir for her dearest husband. She thought of a boy with blonde hair and grey eyes much like her own. This child could not replace him. No. Never. A fist clenched resolutely. Pink splashed on her pale cheeks, and her teeth gritted.

This had been a mistake. She was sure of it. Little did she know, it was quite a grand mistake, but not the sort of mistake she had led herself to presently believe.

Meanwhile, a man and woman lay together in another part of London in bed as well. The woman, who was once a girl (but war had changed her greatly), wondered if she too would be a good mother. Her fuzzy, brown hair lay against her pillowcase in a matted mess. Brown eyes bore dark circles. She had wept today in the hospital. Her hand fell across her abdomen, and she yearned for life to have finally grown there. She brushed her other hand against her husband's red locks, wishing she could finally make him proud.

However, her wish would not come true. There was no life in her womb.

But she would have a child.

* * *

Reviews are love!

What do you think? Do you want me to continue this fic? I'm sure you guys already know who Hermione is in the story and who Narcissa is. You might also have an inkling as to what the 'mistake' is (has to do with the mediwizard's absentmindedness). This story will be slightly AU in the sense that Draco has died in the war (thus, Lucius and Narcissa are trying again- well, judging from the prologue, Lucius really wants another heir, but Narcissa isn't sure if she wants to have a child again, especially with Lucius, as she feels like his pawn).

Hope you're all doing well!


	2. Chapter 1: The Collision

**Chapter 1: The Collision**

* * *

 _"Did stars collide_

 _when your hand_

 _touched mine?"_

* * *

An owl carrying the _Daily Prophet_ flew in through the window of Hermione's office. The creature let the newspaper fall near Hermione's morning coffee. She was lazily swirling her spoon in the warm liquid, but her periphery vision caught a sight that froze her. With widened eyes, she read the headlines on the newspaper:

 _Malfoys' Expecting_

Just earlier in the morning, she had received a call from St. Mungo's. Hermione recalled the conversation with bitter disappointment: "Sorry," the mediwizard, Healer Finnegan had said. "Perhaps, you should try again."

Only, Hermione couldn't try again for quite a while. She had spent all her savings on the treatment, and it would be some time before she had the necessary amount to give it another try. The procedure was a mixture of Muggle and Magical genius. St. Mungo's had been experimenting with Muggle medical techniques, and they had added magical touches to them. Through the use of potions, eggs and sperms could be conjoined and fertilized. In fact, two eggs could even be meshed together to produce an offspring, although two sperms could not, owing to biological limitations. These fertilized eggs were then placed into the uterus via Muggle equipment, and then only time would then tell if they would be carried to term.

Hermione sighed, but then a thought suddenly occurred to her: she had one egg left—one more procedure. Why hadn't Healer Finnegan informed her of her remaining treatment?

Whilst lost in thought, the door to her office sprang open, and in came Harry. He looked tired and worn out. He had the sort of hair that was already prone to being dishevelled. Accordingly, his hair was in quite a disarray presently. Hermione thought he looked rather like a porcupine. She chuckled, and Harry, aware of his current state, shortly joined in.

"How have you been doing, 'Mione?" he asked warmly as he set his half full coffee cup by her side, and sat in the chair before her.

Hermione sighed. She pushed the _Daily Prophet_ towards him. "Seems like a Malfoy will be sharing his schooling with your child."

Harry frowned. "Yeah, I saw the newspaper earlier today." He then smirked. "I'll make sure that _my son_ gives their kid a hard time."

"A son?!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Yes! Ginny found out a day ago." Harry smiled. "I came here to tell you about it!"

"I'm... happy for you, Harry," she said earnestly, but there was a hint of sadness in her voice. Her eyes lowered to the _Daily Prophet_ , to the well-structured face of Narcissa Malfoy, and she felt an intense outpouring of envy within her.

How could this woman conceive when she could not? She had sacrificed her life a thousand times over for strangers, and yet fate could not bestow her with her only wish.

"Hermione?" asked Harry in a concerned voice. She was whirled out of her thoughts.

"Sorry," she said in a small voice. "I was... thinking about the case," she lied.

"The case, yes," Harry replied, but she knew he had caught her lie. "Hermione," he said, "you look overworked."

"So do you," said Hermione, whilst smiling. "Ginny must be keeping you busy."

He chuckled. "Then let's go for a quick stroll in Diagon Alley?"

"I'd love to," said Hermione. "But, I have to visit St. Mungo's today." She wished to ask the Mediwizard of the egg that she had remaining, and if she could be given any sort of financial assistance for the next treatment if this one were to fail as well.

When Harry had left, she gazed once more at the _Daily Prophet_ , and she perceived what she had not seen before when she had been overcome by resentment: Narcissa Malfoy's eyes were empty, and her customary fierce gaze that she flung at those intruding into her life was nowhere to be seen.

And she was reminded of the day in the battle when she had seen the woman buckled over her son, and had noticed her pointing a wand at her own chest... there was something poignant about that moment, about viewing this indomitable woman so utterly beaten.

 _Stop thinking about that day._

Hermione turned the newspaper around in order to hide the vexing headline. She then slumped forwards, placed her elbows on her desk, and burrowed her head into her palms. She released a deep breath as she pleaded for a miracle.

 _Gather yourself, Hermione._

Books, they always helped. The witch decided to visit a bookstore before visiting St. Mungo's.

And another witch, who sat alone before an ornate mirror in a grandiose manor, shared the same line of thought.

Narcissa Malfoy was brushing her hair. She grasped her wand and casted a charm on herself. Her platinum tresses began to move, and they were soon fashioned into an elegant up do. Gradually, she then applied a burgundy lipstick to her fleshy lips, and hid the dark circles under her eyes with some powder.

During her formative years, her mother had often told her to tend to the small things when overwhelmed. Brush your hair. Paint your face. Smile. Pretend.

Narcissa smirked at her reflection in the mirror.

Yes, pretend. It had gotten her into this mess in the first place. Her whole life had been a facade, a charade. She was always playing a role: the loving wife to her husband, the prejudiced wife of a Death Eater, the heartless aristocrat to the world...

But who was she, really?

Narcissa did not know.

Her silver eyes darted to a picture frame. There, she found a little boy in her arms. Draco.

And she remembered him lying in the Great Hall amidst the corpses. Skin still tender and warm. Greyback had slaughtered her little boy. Narcissa had been a pathetic, trembling mess; she had fallen next to him. Her gown had been drenched in his blood. Draco's eyes had cracked open when he had felt his mother's presence. A small voice had left his lips. "Love yourself, Mother," he had whispered to her.

"You bloody fool!" she had then cried. "Do you have any sense in you? Fighting against the Dark Lord!"

"Mother... did I ever tell you that I was to be sorted in Hufflepuff... but I wanted to make father proud?" he asked hoarsely. And then his eyes sealed shut. The question had been full of equivocations (and Narcissa had always known that her little boy carried a heart too bright for Slytherin; she mused over how his life would have been if he had been sorted in the house fit for his soul).

"Draco... My dragon?" she had murmured by his ear.

He had never responded.

Narcissa had let out a most painful and wild cry. She had clutched her son's hand, and with her spare hand, she had directed her wand at her chest. It would have been the end of her if someone hadn't taken her wand from her hold. The person's voice had been distant. A whisper. Her focus had only been on her son, and all else had been a blur. "Take her somewhere safe," the voice had said. It had been soft and assured—a woman's.

"Love yourself, Mother," had been her boy's last words.

Narcissa placed the frame back onto her dressing table, and she examined herself once more with her perceptive grey eyes.

How could she love herself whilst knowing that she was bringing another life into this damnation?

In a sudden rush of movement, she had flung her hairbrush at the mirror of the dressing table. The mirror had not shattered, however. It had once been her mother's, and her mother had charmed it such so that it would never break. Instead, her brush had fallen backwards onto her lap.

 _Pretend_.

Narcissa smirked again at herself. She cleared her eyes of all emotions, and her expression turned unreadable.

Books had always been her salvation. The bookstore. Yes, she would go there today.

* * *

Hermione was in an aisle in the bookstore that displayed books on healing through potion making. She found herself often in this aisle, wondering if she could finally stumble on a book that might heal her sterility. However, her higher mind always knew that there was simply no potion for such a trouble, for experience had taught her so, as well as the various mediwizards she had contacted over the past two years.

As she was perusing all the covers on the shelf, her attention was caught by an interesting title: _Potion Making in the Dark Arts: On Destroying Rather than Nurturing._ Her hand reached out to seize it when another hand—soft, delicate, and warm—fell against hers. Disoriented, Hermione let her hand rest against the book as she gazed at her right where she met tanzanite eyes rimmed by long lashes. Cerise lips spoke: "Oh, I apologize, Mrs. Weasley. My surroundings often blur when I am in bookstores," and Hermione suddenly noticed a lack of warmth; the lean, manicured hand was no longer on hers.

She took in the rest of the woman's features: her platinum hair and dark emerald robes. "Mrs. … Malfoy?" she said unbelievingly. Hermione came to realize she looked rather distraught. Hastily, she gathered her wits and smiled reservedly. They had never truly had a conversation since the war, and neither had they ever wished to. "Congratulations. Uh—I saw the Daily Prophet today," said Hermione. She caught a mist fall over the woman's grey eyes, and she thought of the moving image of her in the Daily Prophet—her desolate gaze, and she was led to recall the battle, the wand held against her chest. _Stop thinking about that day, Hermione._

The aristocrat nodded and smiled reservedly after a moment. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," she said coolly.

Hermione returned a taciturn smile. "Well, I must be going—"

"Will you be buying that book?" asked Narcissa Malfoy suddenly. "It is the last one on the shelf."

Hermione peered down: _Potion Making on the Dark Arts: On Destroying Rather than Nurturing._ The title had simply enticed her curiosity; of course, she would never create any of the potions printed therein. Hermione then lifted her eyes and gazed at Narcissa: a Slytherin, once a Black and now a Malfoy. This book would be safer in her hands rather than the pureblood's. "I—yes," stuttered Hermione. She then caught a small frown briefly emit on the aristocrat's winsome face.

"Very well," said Narcissa Malfoy.

As the witch turned around and moved to another aisle, Hermione pondered over why she had desired to covet the book. Had the pureblood been simply curious like her or had she carried more insidious intentions?

She flipped the book open and gazed at the table of contents. For some reason, a chapter grasped her attention: _Potions for Inducing a Miscarriage_.

No, Narcissa would never do such a thing, Hermione mused. Her brown eyes perused the rest of the table of contents: _Potions for Ensnaring Minds._ Hermione thought of the pureblood's captivating stare and sultry voice—the latter seemed more like the sort of concoction Narcissa Malfoy would have wished to craft.

* * *

What do you guys think?

The length of the chapters in this fanfiction will most likely vary. They might be very long or very short or anything in-between. Nevertheless, they might be on the shorter end (1000-3000 words) as I would like to update this story at a quicker pace!

Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. Chapter 2: An Imbroglio

**Chapter 2: An Imbroglio**

* * *

 _"We must dance_

 _for cunning fate_

 _brought us to its ball."_

* * *

The waiting room was brim with people, particularly individuals with raging hormones. Hermione Granger was pretending to flip through a magazine, but through the corner of her eyes, she was studying the people in her environs, as she was one wont to observing her surroundings. There were large posters on the walls regarding female health, and her nose curled up at one of them: _A smelly vagina?_ It began. Hastily, Hermione ripped her notice from there, and brown eyes suddenly fell on grey.

Narcissa Malfoy.

Almost reflexively, Hermione lifted the magazine in an attempt to hide her face, but she was halted in her attempt to cover herself when she noticed the blonde nipping on her burgundy lips; her slender hands were clasped in a tight hold. Was Narcissa Malfoy… tense? She had never seen her in an uneasy state before. Hermione noticed a vacant seat beside the witch, and considered sitting there, but she rapidly changed her mind, as she was of the belief that they were not friends and never would be, for they came from entirely different upbringings and were far too dissimilar to have a decent conversation.

However, it seemed she was destined to sit there, as when she was once more attempting to hide her face, she heard a woman say: "Excuse me, but I was sitting there." She gazed upwards at a reddened face of a heavily pregnant female, and decided it would be in her best interest to remove herself from the seat.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" said Hermione after languidly walking towards her and the vacant seat beside her. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

Startled by her sight, Narcissa Malfoy attempted to compose herself. "Mrs. Weasley? Yes, of course. You may sit here."

"Thank you," answered Hermione, grateful that she did not have to stand. A few minutes of silence transpired, but since they were acquaintances, Hermione found the quietude fairly uncomfortable. "How are you doing, Mrs. Malfoy?"

The pureblood responded with a gentle nod. "I'm well, Mrs. Weasley," she replied, but Hermione's intuition, which usually was rather sensitive, could not come to believe her. The witch was behaving in a peculiar manner; in fact, she seemed rather afraid. If Hermione had been in her shoes, she was certain she would have been much more jubilant.

"Are you also with-child?" asked the aristocrat.

Hermione shook her head. "No, but I'd like to be … in the near future, that is."

"Oh, good luck," said Narcissa.

"Thank you," answered Hermione.

It was rather evident that they were the type of individuals who found small talk terribly irksome. Narcissa removed a book from a small pouch that stored much more than what it appeared to be able to hold: _Macbeth_ , it read.

Hermione's eyes widened at the sight and her eyes glimmered. "You read Shakespeare?" she asked.

The blonde lifted an elegant brow. "Yes. Do you take me for a philistine, Mrs. Weasley?"

Her cheeks reddened. "No—no that's not what I meant," she began and hastily explained, "I mean—it's Muggle literature. I didn't think you'd read his work."

The pureblood felt taxed by her company. "It may be Muggle literature, but Shakespeare was most definitely not a Muggle, Mrs. Weasley," she said stiffly. "It just so happens that he found himself more welcomed in the Muggle world than ours, as he often portrayed us witches as unsightly hags in his plays."

Much to her chagrin, Hermione had not known this piece of information. "Oh, I didn't know that, Mrs. Malfoy," she replied.

"You'll find that you know less as you age, Mrs. Weasley," Narcissa remarked frostily. Her piercing grey eyes caught ahold of her brown. "Do you know how the terms bloodtraitor and mudblood have come about, Mrs. Weasley? They have arisen from a history of wizards and witches- often Muggleborns like Shakespeare- exploiting our people. And worse, assisting Muggles in our extermination."

Hermione tensed and realized that sitting next to Narcissa might have not been a great idea. Perhaps, she should have come here another day. She was about to excuse herself and lie about needing to go to the lavatory (but in actuality flee St. Mungo's and return home) when a secretary called after the two. "Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Malfoy. Healer Finnegan would like to see the both of you. If you would like, you can come individually… or together."

Why were they both being seen simultaneously? Hermione gazed to her right at Narcissa and noticed she too appeared quite perplexed.

"I would like to go individually," said Narcissa. Hermione was not startled by her decision. Naturally, the pureblood preferred secrecy and privacy in order to not risk being unmasked.

"Alright. Would you like to go first?" asked Hermione, but as she had put forward her query, she noticed that the witch appeared quite unwell. "Are you alright-"

"You may go first," Narcissa quickly said in a strained voice. Her slender hand had covered her lips and she had arisen from her seat. Hermione suddenly realized that she was most likely indeed nauseous when she recalled that the woman was in her first trimester.

"Oh, yes - yes Mrs. Malfoy. Yes, of course," she stammered, startled.

Once the secretary had ushered her into the Healer's office, she noticed that the Mediwizard's cheeks were awfully red and that his forehead was glistening with sweat. He appeared quite uncomfortable and stiff. His hands were clasped and placed above his mahogany table. "Healer Finnegan?" said Hermione. "Are you okay?" she asked nervously as she traipsed into his office.

"Please, sit down," said the healer, pointing to the chair before him. "Is Mrs. Malfoy with you?" he asked.

"No. She wishes to come here on her own," she answered. "What is it? Why have you called the both of us here?"

"I'm glad you decided to visit me today, Mrs. Weasley. I was about to send you an owl. You see," he sighed. "I don't know how to begin really. I wish I knew how to say this, but-" he took in an even deeper sigh, "Mrs. Weasley, you might be having a child."

A child?

Hermione thought of a baby with bright brown eyes and red hair. She imagined years of memories that could be created with a child of her own. She thought of Ron and how merry he would be if he were to hear this news. A small smile crept on her face. Had she heard him right? Had her wishes finally been granted? Was fate at last her friend? _Merlin's beard._ "I'm sorry?" said Hermione. "But you just called earlier today and said that I - " and then she stopped herself as a thought occurred to her: "Wait. Why might I _might_ be having a child?"

"Well, you see," said the Healer slowly. "It's quite a long story. Uh," he cleared his throat. "Please, sit down."

When she had seated herself, the Mediwizard began, "You can't have another treatment Mrs. Weasley as your egg is... no longer available."

Hermione raised a brow. "What? It wasn't fertilized?"

"No, no. It..." he paused and more perspiration seemed to lather on his forehead. "The problem is it has been, but not in the right way."

Utterly perplexed, Hermione leaned forwards. "What do you mean?"

"I... uh. Well, you see right after your visit, a couple came in. And I... wasn't paying attention. I took this woman's egg and yours and added the potion..."

Oh no.

Hermione had the sudden hunch that Mrs. Malfoy was somehow involved in this predicament.

"Are you saying that a chromosome from my egg and another egg were joined and then this fertilized egg was then put into..." she trailed off.

"Yes," the mediwizard said, nodding sadly. "I am so sorry, but I would like to inform you that the woman your egg was inserted into is with-child, but you see... this is private information, of course, and I should not share it, but seeing how this is a most peculiar and delicate situation, you may wish to talk to her about it..." He gulped. "This woman... "

"You mean Mrs. Malfoy?" said Hermione, who had become terribly exasperated and angered by the mediwizard, petrified of what had occurred and what was to occur, and entirely flummoxed by the situation.

"How did you know?" asked the mediwizard, surprised.

Hermione wondered how this man had been capable of becoming a Healer as his critical faculties were quite feeble. "You called the both of us in," she said. "Remember?"

"Ah yes," he frowned. "Yes. Now, Mrs. Malfoy is not keen on keeping this child. She has come here today to see if she can abort it. Of course, as you might already know, abortion is not permissible yet in the Wizarding world, but I am to give her resources so she can go through with the procedure in a Muggle clinic. "

"And what am I to do?" asked Hermione while lifting a brow. "I am not the one carrying the child."

"Well, you are a biological parent, so perhaps you might be interested in the future of this child. You might wish to discuss the matter with Mrs. Malfoy. I simply wished to inform you of the circumstance."

Hermione let out a great breath, one even deeper than the one the Healer had let out a moment before. She brushed her hair with her hand and lifted her gaze to the ceiling, and although she began to stare intently at the asbestos, she could only see Narcissa's silver eyes and her bushy hair on a little girl...

This had to be a bloody joke.

Her attention was taken by the sudden sound of someone sniffling. Hermione swiftly turned her notice to the door, and there she saw a slim hand releasing its grasp from the door frame, and the shadow of a lean yet curvaceous figure.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" asked Hermione. "Is that you?" And she found it tremendously satirical that they were not even on a first name basis, but they had a child in the making.

Her answer came through the sound of heels thumping against the ground. Instantly, she rose from her chair and started to storm after her, as she came to realize they were both deeply intertwined in this imbroglio.

The gods had answered her wish, but they had mocked her.

* * *

I have mid terms and exams, but instead I'm writing this. Ah, I'm such a procrastinator!

Anyhow, your reviews are greatly appreciated! Your thoughts help me see my strengths and weaknesses. Do let me know if you think the characters are becoming slightly OOC. I would like to stick to their original personalities and not change them too much. Presently, I believe that Narcissa (or anyone for that matter) would have reacted in a similar fashion to this predicament. I don't think it's a sign of frailty. Narcissa is in a very troubling situation: 1. She isn't sure if she wants to keep this child. 2. This child is not even her husband's, so she feels even more violated.

I hope you are enjoying this so far :)! Remember, if you have anything to say, feel free to do so!


	4. Chapter 3: Equivocations

**Chapter 3: Equivocations**

* * *

 _"Unspoken words_

 _sit between us,_

 _weighing on our gazes."_

* * *

They had bolted through St. Mungo's like lightning. Hermione, the cat, and Narcissa, the mouse. Now, they were breathing violently in Muggle London, in a discreet alleyway outside of St. Mungo's. Hermione had clenched the witch's hand when she had been about to Disapparate, tugging her towards herself. Her touch had made the woman lose her concentration, and hence her objective.

Silver eyes looked piercing. Sunlight glistened on platinum hair. Narcissa's mascara had smudged against her alabaster skin, and the contrast it made caused her to appear almost unearthly. A lone tear fell from her eye. Hermione felt a knot within her throat at its presence.

"How dare you touch me," hissed Narcissa when she came to her senses. Her pupils had dilated like a feline's.

"Sorry, I had to. You— you can't Disapparate," stammered Hermione between breaths. They were so very close. She attempted to not focus on the sensation of the woman's long, crimson nails against her palm (but it proved to be a tenacious task). "Because of your... condition," she explained. It seemed the witch before her had lost her sense of caution in her delirium.

"Let go of me!" demanded Narcissa, but she was impatient and could not stand being held by the other woman for another moment—thus, before Hermione could process her order, the blonde had given her abdomen a quick kick with her kneecap, and had freed herself from her hold.

Startled by its unexpectedness and her physical strength (Merlin's bloody beard, how was she so strong?), Hermione rolled her eyes due to the pain, and her back bent as she held her abdomen. " _Ow_ ," she groaned, while having been forced by the sharp ache to lean against the cobbled wall of the alleyway. "Was that really necessary?" she complained, peering upwards at the aristocrat.

"Do not ever appear before me," said the impossible woman in dark tones. She was taking shaky steps backwards. "Or it shall be your very last breath," she threatened, and Hermione suddenly recalled the day in Madam Malkin's when she had heard the same threat, but of course, the context was starkly different now. She would have never known then that she would be so intricately tied to her in a personal predicament, lost with her in a morass of misfortune.

"Listen," she said through gritted teeth, still buckled over and leaning against the wall. "You... need to use the floo... and I know a place nearby... a coffee shop... I'll take you there... and you don't have to ever see me again..." As the pain lessened, she began to straighten herself and said in a more relaxed voice, "And perhaps, we can have a quick conversation about this."

The pureblood still appeared unyielding and uncompromising. Utterly irate, she had furrowed her pale brows, and her cheeks had turned slightly rosy. Wayward tufts of blonde hair, shimmering under the sunlight, had fallen out of her once elegant bun, and were now trembling with the soft wind. The black smudges of her mascara around her silver eyes made her look haunting. The sight was prepossessing. Hermione had lost her breath for a moment in Narcissa's colours, and she had been led to wonder how the woman could look so beautiful even when she was such a mess.

She sighed. "Listen," she said softly, hoping the warmth in her voice would make the woman less contrary, "we're both affected by this...we're both frightened out of our wits, and I know it's probably affecting you much more intensely, since you're... well.. you know..."

Narcissa's brows were still furrowed, but now in concentration. She was listening. Hermione took this as a good sign. "Let's talk about it. The coffee shop nearby is owned by a squib. And there is a fireplace in there connected to the floo network. You need to floo, anyway." She smiled cordially, although she knew the expression wouldn't be returned. "Let's go there. How about it?" asked Hermione. She hoped the inflexible woman would agree to her proposition. Her heart drummed rapidly, and so loudly that when the blonde had spoken, she had misheard her.

"Oh," sighed Hermione, defeated. She pursed her lips and her shoulders slumped. "Well. Goodbye then, I guess," she said to silver eyes.

When she was about to turn around, she heard the deep, mellifluous voice of the witch: "I did not know you were hard of hearing, Mrs. Weasley. I said I would go."

In a quick flash, she returned her attention to the witch, and found her striding towards her. Her black heels clicked and clacked furiously against the granite ground. Each step was taken with absolute reluctance.

And her fierce gaze bore into her. And her lips were pressed into a thin line. Brows, still crumpled. Loose tendrils of light hair were swaying passionately with the wind. _Morgana, help me_ , prayed Hermione when she had remembered to breathe. "Wait," Hermione then murmured when the woman had arrived by her side. Her brown eyes had concentrated on Narcissa's livid grey.

The pureblood arched a brow. "What is it, Mrs. Weasley?"

She had reached for her wand. Narcissa tensed when she pointed it at her face and wordlessly casted a charm. "Your eyes," whispered Hermione, gulping awkwardly as she put her wand away. "Your mascara had smudged," she quickly explained. "I just wiped it off, but I left your hair. It looks nice windblown... Reminds me of a painting I once saw of a Veela," she continued, and then suddenly worried that perhaps she had said too much.

The witch simply gawked at her as though she had two heads growing out of her neck. Hermione waited for a scathing remark. The interim silence was nerve-wracking.

"You talk incessantly," Narcissa said finally.

At that, Hermione's cheeks burned. "Sorry," she squeaked. "I-I didn't mean to. I was just fixing your- " she stuttered, self-conscious as she wondered if she had said too much again— if she looked like a fool. Hermione gulped nervously again. Meanwhile, Narcissa was expressionless. Her impenetrable mask rendered Hermione even more diffident. _Oh gods, I'm an idiot_ , the younger witch thought to herself.

She was whirled out of mentally self-depreciating herself by Narcissa's impatient voice: "Let's go, Mrs. Weasley. I don't like to dawdle."

"Yes," answered Hermione too hastily. "Let's."

When they had arrived at the coffee shop, she thought the aristocrat was revolted by its humble interior, as her delicate nose had crinkled, and she appeared as though she was having a difficult time breathing. "It smells here...like wet dogs," said the witch with scrunched nostrils. However, when Hermione sniffed the air, she found nothing out of the ordinary, save for the smell of coffee mixed with sweets and delicatessen.

"It's your senses, Mrs. Malfoy," explained Hermione. "I've read they can become a little sensitive when you're..." _expecting_ _._ She didn't know if she should say the word. "Anyway, we'll sit in the patio, then?"

One had to serve themselves in this coffee shop. Hermione read the menu pasted on a black board near the counter and asked, "What would you like?" An answer never came. She quickly twirled her head around to look back at the presently empty spot the aristocrat had occupied a moment before.

Had she left?

She wondered if the witch had already floo'd away. But when she faced the front of the shop, about to leave, she noticed a blonde head outside the cafe's windows, and let out a sigh of relief. Narcissa had not been able to withstand the odour within the shop for another second, so she had made herself comfortable outside in the patio.

Soon, Hermione had returned with two cups of tea and cinnamon buns. "I didn't know what you wanted," she said meekly as she sat before the woman.

Narcissa eyed the cinnamon bun in her plate with disinterest. She lethargically clenched her cup of tea and held it within her palms, soaking in its warmth. Hermione silently watched the woman as she briefly closed her eyes. The wind was whistling delicately and had become caressing. The weather was far too wondrous for such a terrible day. Soft light had pushed through a small hole in the red umbrella of the patio, illuminating the diamonds on their wedding rings. Hermione gazed below at the brightness emanating out of the jewel, and vivid images of Ron materialized in her mind: How could she tell him? How would she tell him? Should she tell him, seeing how this ... error would most likely be taken care of anyway? She sighed.

With pursed lips, the two women then stared at each other. Their contemplative gazes spoke volumes. Hermione gingerly took her cup from the table and cleared her voice. "So..." she began, wondering how she would commence their conversation. "The weather is nice."

Narcissa glared at her gelidly as she sipped on her tea. Evidently, she was not in the mood for asinine small talk. "Mrs. Weasley. Every second here—with you— is a great burden, and one I do not wish to carry. Let us do away with pretenses. You asked me to come here for your own peace of mind, Mrs. Weasley. Did you not?"

Having been startled by Narcissa's bluntness, the younger witch's lips trembled. "I — no —" she whispered, but her voice suddenly escaped from her hold, as she had begun to question if there had been truth to the woman's words: Had she only wished to converse with her to know if the problem would be out of her life? Had she only been concerned for herself? Had the other woman's well being truly taken primacy in her mind? Guilt-ridden and unsure of where her feelings lay, Hermione pursed her lips and her eyes darted away from the woman's sharp gaze.

Narcissa took the other woman's silence as an answer. "The... error will be dealt with as soon as possible," she said, "if that is your worry. And you shan't have to ever think about it again. I will mention it to no one, and of course, I expect the same respect in return." She paused, letting the uttered sink in. "Look at me. Listen to me carefully," she then began intimidatingly. Hermione had been looking away the entire time, unable to behold silver daggers.

Hermione slowly lifted her eyes from her cup of tea and let them fall on the aristocrat. Narcissa had been clenching her teacup in her hand with her utmost strength. Her knuckles had turned white. Silvery eyes looked frantic. "My image shall not be tarnished," she ordered. "Word of this will go to no one. You will not utter this complication to anyone— and certainly not that puerile and brash buffoon you call a husband." At the off-handed jibe, Hermione paled: Was Ron perceived by just Narcissa as a fool or did others hold a similar view? "Can I trust that you will remember this, Mrs. Weasley?" she heard the woman ask.

 _Complication. Error._ Narcissa had carefully selected her words. Hermione recognized they were desensitizing themselves, avoiding the use of any words that touched maternal instincts. "No — I mean yes," croaked Hermione after having struggled to find her voice.

Narcissa sipped on her tea. " _Good_."

A heavy silence emerged. What else was there to say? Hermione self-consciously sipped on her tea and gazed out on the street adjacent to where they sat. There were many people promenading, but one caught her attention: a woman with a stroller—a small child, one that was surely no older than a month or two lay within it. From her periphery vision, Hermione noticed how Narcissa's attention had fallen on the sight as well. The more they attempted to numb themselves to the torturous matter, the more the universe would not allow them to do so. Grey eyes darted away from the scene, almost frantically. Hermione had watched them intently.

Was there life in Narcissa? Could it be called life? Did it really matter anyway, seeing how they had no other realistic option, but to abo— _eliminate the issue_ (she quickly corrected her choice of words)?

Hermione placed her cup of tea down on the table. There was no point in such ponders. What must be done had to be done. At this, Hermione recalled the book she had bought in the bookstore earlier—that period in time, though so recent, seemed eons ago. And she wondered if she could ever be that person once more. As Hermione looked into Narcissa's silver eyes, slightly tinged red from having wept, she hoped the secret they shared would never haunt her.

 _It has to be done._ She reached for a small pouch in the pocket of her jeans, and removed it. It was a pouch of the same quality as the one Narcissa had, one that could hold more than its perceivable size. Hermione removed the book she had bought earlier today from there. She placed it between herself and the other witch. The book's cover was black and solemn. Their gazes had focused on a particular part of the title— _Destroying Rather than Nurturing._

"I understand that you may find it wearisome to go to a Muggle clinic, since you are not... accustomed to the Muggle world, though I can accompany you to one if you would wish—nevertheless, if you would rather not go, there is a chapter in this book... that you may find useful," whispered Hermione, who had similarly found it necessary to choose her words with deliberation.

Narcissa nodded slowly. Hermione watched her hand pull the book closer to herself, and noted how her long, slim fingers had brushed against the word, _Destroying._ When her grey eyes had peered up, Hermione noticed them shine, and knew they were restrained tears—knew that whatever she felt, Narcissa felt ten-fold.

"I'm sorry," whispered Hermione, unsure as to whether she was sorry for herself, Narcissa or—

She had abruptly gulped her thoughts, for they had travelled near a place that upon entry would have elicited dreams of a girl with silver eyes and unruly brown hair.

Meanwhile, lips the color of wine had shivered from the innuendos in Hermione's apology.

* * *

Posted this without looking over it again for errors (as I don't have that sort of time - must finish an assignment!). Writing this chapter was harder than usual. I wanted to capture their emotions and reactions with accuracy, but something with it was amiss the first time I had written it, so I had to re-write this chapter more than once. I hope my efforts were not in vain and I've made how they feel realistic, as I don't want their reactions to be out of character. So, what do you guys think? Your thoughts help me know if I'm on the right track, so feel free to leave a review! Criticism (that is, constructive criticism) is not minded. :)

Thanks for reading this and sticking with it so far!


	5. Chapter 4: Lavender and Hyacinths

**Chapter 4: Lavender and Hyacinths**

* * *

 _"We hide in lies_

 _blind to the wants of our souls_

 _for often, they desire_

 _that which requires courage."_

* * *

London was in its usual sour mood; rain pattered against the window, and the city was submerged in a great fog. Hermione was curled up on a sofa near a fireplace, in the lounge of her office at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where she had become the Deputy Head. Sleep had evaded her since her meeting with Narcissa Malfoy. She was holding her fifth (or was it sixth?) cup of coffee in her hand, and brought it to her lips, soon wallowing in the bitter taste of Arabian coffee beans. Within her free hand, she was holding onto a file on a crime that was to be taken to the Wizengamot.

And it had hit home.

A woman had used a potion to remove herself of an unwanted pregnancy, as she had several children and not enough funds to support another child. Her husband had become furious, and had promptly notified Aurors of the matter, as in the Wizarding World, forcing a miscarriage could be likened to an abortion under the law. Upon using Veritaserum, it had been revealed that she had indeed used the potion. The Prosecution Services had thusly declared that she was to be sent to the Wizengamot for a trial; and Hermione had been tasked with approving the decision of the Persecution Services.

Hermione sighed.

If the Wizengamot declared the woman guilty, she would spend several years withering in prison. Hermione thought of a certain witch with blonde hair crouched in a dark, damp cell, behind iron bars, and suddenly realized she could not partake in this savagery; impulsively, Hermione flung the case file into the fire, making the flames thicken and grow brighter. Silently, she then observed the papers crumple, burn and turn to ash. The case was as good as gone. On paper, the crime was never committed; if the woman's husband ever inquired about the matter, no one would be able find any record of it.

Pleased with herself, she took another sip from her cup of coffee, and understood she was in need of something stronger, an elixir to numb her thoughts. There was a little bar stand in her lounge, scarcely used. Hermione went there leisurely and poured red wine into a glass, and its colour made her think of crimson lips. And soon, one glass had turned two, and two had turned to three. Upon her sixth glass of wine, there was a knock on the door to her lounge.

"Who is it?" she groaned.

Hermione had been sitting next to the counter of the bar stand. She had rested her forehead against the palm of her hand, and when her secretary had walked in, she had clumsily arisen from the stool she had been seated on. Her secretory, a nervous girl who had just gotten the job a few weeks ago, tensed when she realized her superior might have had one too many drinks.

"Um. Someone wants to see you, Mrs. Weasley," piped the girl.

"What— _Oh,_ who?" answered Hermione, while keeping her balance by placing one hand on the counter of the bar stand.

"Mrs. Tonks," the girl retorted. "She looks very troubled."

"Mrs. Tonks?" whispered Hermione. When her higher mind had processed the information, she exclaimed, " _Of course!_ Why did you not bring her in immediately?!"

The girl trembled from Hermione's raised voice. "I—I didn't know—" she stammered, and then suddenly, the door to her office had sprung open. In had stormed a woman with wild dark, curly hair. She was panting furiously, and beneath her black coat, Hermione caught sight of a cream nightgown and black slippers. Her brown eyes were frantically looking about, and when her gaze had landed on Hermione, she had sprung forwards like a leopard, and had seized her wrist, hauling her towards the fireplace in the lounge.

"You must come with me instantly," said Andromeda in one large breath.

Hermione had caught her balance by leaning against the stones of the fireplace. Disoriented and absolutely confused, she gawked at Andromeda. "What's… goin' on?" she slurred.

"Why are you bloody inebriated on the job?" asked Andromeda. She huffed, as she threw floo powder into the fireplace. "And why have you not bothered to connect my floo network to yours?"

"There is a—a problem with my fireplace. I've asked them to fix it weeks ago, but—" Hermione was interjected. Before she had readied herself, Andromeda had thrust her into the green flames in the fireplace.

She nearly toppled over when they arrived at their destination, but Andromeda quickly held her arm, saving her face from meeting the ground. " _Merlin_ , I need you sober," she heard the witch curse behind her. "Stay here," she ordered.

Hermione goggled at her surroundings. Andromeda had brought her to her home. She noticed a few beads of blood on the wooden floor of the living room, and quickly fathomed that something was terribly wrong.

 _Oh gods._

Hermione's face paled. Her drunken mind believed she had been forced into being an accomplice to a murder, but her higher mind quickly realized Andromeda would never do such a thing. She gulped as she then stepped backwards, and leaned against a wall. So, what was going on then? She pondered. Why was Andromeda dreadfully afraid and frightened?

She took a sharp breath: Someone was hurt. Someone close to Andromeda. Someone possibly close to her. Why would this person not be taken to St. Mungo's then if they were injured?

Perhaps, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement could not be notified of how the person had come to be injured…

Hermione was whirled out of her thoughts upon Andromeda's return. The woman had come with a vial. "Drink this," she ordered. Hermione took the vial and found clear liquid within it. She gulped it down. It was bitter and tasted like acetone. She began to cough. "A potion to sober you up," explained the witch. "Come," she then said.

Hermione nodded as the coughing subsided. "What's going on, 'Meda?" she finally asked; the potion had begun to work and her mind had started to clear itself out of the hazy miasma of inebriation.

"There's no time for explanations. You'll see what I mean," said Andromeda.

Whilst anxiously following Andromeda up the stairs, Hermione observed the portraits on the wall beside the staircase. The pictures had been rendered unmoving, as Nymphadora Tonks' paternal relatives could not be privy to the Magical world. Hermione felt her heart tighten as she passed by them: there was Nymphadora, a toddler in her mother's arms; next to where Andromeda sat, was the late Ted Tonks smiling widely. And then, the last picture had Hermione's mind spinning: Three sisters: fair, dark, and lovely. The fairest one had grasped her attention. Her long, blonde hair was sculpted into loose curls. Narcissa was fiery from adolescence; her eyes were less calculating and more hopeful; her smile was more blithe. Still in Hogwarts, she wore a short skirt with Slytherin's colours, and her long legs were enveloped in fishnet nylons.

"You kept this picture... " whispered Hermione, who had become contemplative. When had the girl in the picture lost her adolescent insouciance? At what point had she turned into a woman?

"They're my sisters," Andromeda replied. Her voice became more sorrowful: "I love them … despite the past."

They had arrived before a door. Hermione recalled it was the guest bedroom. The sound of a woman softly whimpering, and slowly groaning intermittently was emanating from behind the door of the bedroom. Without thought, Hermione placed her hand on the doorknob, about to enter the room, but Andromeda halted her in her endeavour by clenching onto her shoulder; she abruptly turned around to face the witch.

"I need your help," said Andromeda.

"Of course…" whispered Hermione. "I'll help you in any way I can, 'Meda."

"I'm not good with healing, but since you are said to be the greatest witch of your age… and because you're a dear friend, and most importantly... unprejudiced, I supposed you'd be able to help me." She frowned. "Please don't tell anyone of what you are about to see."

 _"'Meda! Is that … you?"_ They both heard a moan. Hermione realized it had come from the woman in the room. Her voice had been awfully familiar: soft, musical, and rich.

"Yes, it's me Cissy," replied Andromeda. "I'm here, love. Help is on the way."

Hermione's heart had thumped harder when Narcissa's moniker had been uttered. Her pulse was quickening. Already, she could feel perspiration lathering against her skin. "Narcissa?" she murmured, dazed. "Narcissa is here?"

Andromeda nodded as she twirled the doorknob. "Yes, my little sister…" Her voice trailed away when the door had opened.

White sheets were drenched in red. A pale Narcissa was lying on her side in a white nightgown soaked in blood, holding a quivering hand against her abdomen. Overwhelmed by pain, she had clenched her eyes, and was shivering. Her blonde hair was damp and matted, as her body was swathed with a thick layer of sweat.

Hermione instantly sprung forwards, kneeling by the witch's side. "Narcissa!" she exclaimed, forgetting formalities. " _Merlin_. Are you all right, Narcissa?"

The woman slowly stirred. Her pale brows wrinkled when she had found Hermione's brown eyes. "The baby… " she whispered. Grey eyes glistened. Hermione watched her clench the fabric above her abdomen harder with a trembling hand. A pearly tear left a wet trail on her porcelain skin. "Please save her…" she murmured, voice fading away. Narcissa's eyes had begun to lose focus. Her brows further crumpled as she fought to hold onto consciousness, but the darkness in her vision was relentless. When she had tumbled into it, her lips had parted and her eyes had closed. She had sighed as her slender hand had fallen limply from her abdomen onto the mattress.

And Hermione had screamed her name.

* * *

 _Earlier Today_

Lucius was in Paris for the next few days to overlook his estates in France. It was the perfect time to complete the task. Narcissa was in her nightgown, crouched over a book in her potion room. She added dark velvet petals of a blue cohosh plant into the green mixture in her golden cauldron, and saw the thick liquid therein sizzle. Her long, slender finger then moved against a page of the book. "Stir three times to the left and three times to the right, then wait five minutes," she whispered to herself.

She did as told. Whilst waiting, she brushed her hair with her fingers, and sighed. The rain was falling rhythmically against the window. Sunlight was nowhere to be seen. There was a blue tint to the air, and the ambience was starkly similar to the morning of the accursed day in which she had lost... everything.

Narcissa stiffened.

She thought of her little boy lying on the cold, marble ground in his pool of blood. It was her fault; she had brought him to this unforgiving world and had let it swallow him. She had been with her husband in the woods that night when she should have been standing next to her son, ensuring his safety… dying in his place if need be. She pursed her lips. _I failed you._ Her hand covered her abdomen. _I'll fail you too…_

And besides, this child would suffer if she were to come. She was an aberration, born from two worlds that should have never collided. Lucius would never accept her; Narcissa did not know if she could ever love her (and she briefly wondered if a certain woman with eyes the colour of sorrel could).

Suddenly, the small timer on the table where the cauldron sat rang. Five minutes had passed. Narcissa took in a heavy breath. It was time. With trembling hands, she poured the liquid from the cauldron into a phial, and then raised it to her lips.

"I'm sorry," whispered Narcissa as she parted her lips open and downed the potion. It tasted salty like tears.

Nothing occurred during the first thirty minutes. Accordingly, Narcissa had gone to her room, and had decided to lie down in bed. She had begun to wonder if the potion she had crafted would even work when a sudden sharp pain erupted in her lower stomach. She buckled over and a crease formed between her eyebrows.

And then she felt warm liquid between her thighs.

She slid a trembling hand under her nightgown and dipped it into the substance. When she had removed her hand, it was stained red

And she was reminded of how Draco's pale skin had been smeared with blood. She thought of how hard it had been to remove crimson from blonde hair. Hot tears suddenly bolted down her face. "Oh gods. What have I done?" she cried. Her uterus constricted again and pain ignited through her abdomen. She groaned, clenching the sheets; and fell into an unexpected vision of a brown-eyed girl with unruly blonde hair running through a garden in a white dress, whilst holding a bunch of yellow dandelions in her little, pudgy hands:

 _"Haha!" she shrieked, giggling. "You can't catch me, Mummy!"_

 _Narcissa was storming towards her, chuckling without restraint. "Oh, yes I will!" She pounced on her and started to tickle her stomach. The girl squirmed under her hold, and when they had tired themselves, they lay on the wet grass, staring at the white clouds._

 _"I love you, Mummy," the girl whispered._

 _"I love you too, monkey," Narcissa murmured back. She turned onto her side, and took a dandelion from the posy of flowers the child held in her chubby hands; she expertly placed it into her curly, blonde hair. "You've inherited your mother's texture," she tsked._

 _"I know. I look like a Griffin!" she said, shaking her mane. "Won't I fit into Gryffindor, Mummy?! I really want to be in Gryffindor. Mum said I was acting like a Slytherin when I made Uncle Harry put a flobberworm in her office … "_

 _"Can I tell you a secret?" said Narcissa conspiratorially._

 _The girl nodded and her brown eyes turned attentive. "What, Mummy?"_

 _"You can be in any house you want, monkey," she said, pulling one of her curls._

 _"Oh, I know," she said flatly, disappointed by the secret. "Uncle Harry already told me."_

 _Suddenly, the little girl had commenced to run again. Narcissa had been forced backwards by the momentum of her leaping from the ground._

 _"Catch me if you can, Mummy!" she exclaimed, her cheerful voice was carried by the wind._

 _"Oh, you little devil…" said Narcissa under her breath, as she too rose from the ground._

Narcissa took in a sharp breath, as she gingerly placed her bloodied hand on her abdomen. She had never divulged to anyone, save for one person—her sister, Andromeda, of how she was occasionally seized by dreams, and how they would at times come true. When she had been just shy of thirteen, she had seen a vision of Andromeda falling in love with a bashful Muggleborn boy. When she had been fourteen, she had seen herself with Lucius under an altar. When she had been sixteen, she had seen her sister in a cold, damp cell in Azkaban. And three years ago, she had seen Voldemort perish at the hands of Harry Potter.

But she had never seen what would happen to her little boy; and she had wondered if his death had been at the hands of fate or if it had been her doing.

Narcissa could still hear the little girl giggling: _"I love you, Mummy,"_ she had whispered as they had lain under the blue sky.

It could have been her imagination. It might not have been a vision, something more. It could have just been in her head. But she had seen a girl—a little girl, _her_ little girl.

 _Her_ _monkey_.

And Narcissa gathered all her might, and managed to push herself through the intense pain. She crawled off the bed, and with great effort, limped towards the fireplace in her bedroom, leaving a trail of blood behind her. Her bloodied, slender hand quivered as it grasped a handful of floo powder and flung it into the flames; and her eyes clenched, as she thought of her childhood, of her sister's twinkling eyes and warm smile. Then, she wobbled into the emerald flames in the fireplace, while weakly holding another bloodied hand against her stomach.

She had been whirled into the living room of a homely house. Narcissa took a hesitant and laborious step out of the fireplace, and anxiously gazed about. Her attention fell on a woman sitting on a couch, reading a book.

"… Narcissa?" said the woman—a familiar voice, but now it had aged like wine.

And then, she was about to collapse, but she found herself in warm arms. She caved in to the person's hold, and smelled lavender and hyacinths. _Andromeda._ She was held tightly in the comforting embrace. "'Meda," she whispered, sniffling against her sister's shoulder blade. "I used a potion ... to get rid of my baby…"—she clenched her teeth as her uterus contracted— _"Oh god-gods, 'Meda…_ " she stammered, as she had begun to tremble from the pain, "… then, whe-when the blood came, I imagined Draco... and my baby... she was so beautiful, 'Meda..." she whimpered, while convulsing.

"… Shh," she heard her sister coo. "You'll be okay—your baby will be okay." She relaxed as Andromeda gently rubbed her back. Her sister breathed in deeply, and she felt her warm fingers against her perspiring skin, as they hung a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I promise, Cissy."


	6. Chapter 5: Two Paths

**Chapter 5: Two Paths**

* * *

 _ **"** To live well, one must _

_be open to the unexpected."_

* * *

She had done all she could.

Hermione sighed as she leant back on a chair beside the bed Narcissa was lying on. With somnolent eyes, she stared at Narcissa's chest, as it rose and fell smoothly. Andromeda had given her a concoction that would restore the blood she had lost, but sinking into a deep slumber was one of its side effects; she had also dressed her in a fresh gown, and Hermione was grateful that her notice was no longer seized by red.

Though blood was no longer being exuded, whether the child had survived, only time would tell. They could only wait now. Hermione's brows creased, as she prayed her efforts had not died in vain.

"You shouldn't have done that, 'Mione," she suddenly heard Andromeda, who was sitting on a chair by the opposite side of the bed. She snapped her attention to her and found her frowning. Andromeda had been referring to the spell she had used while healing Narcissa.

It had been a spell she had stumbled on during one of the many junctures in which she had snuck into the forbidden section of the library at Hogwarts. The book, frayed at its edges and with a simple worn, black cover, had grasped her attention due to the title it had donned: _Blôd Drýcræft,_ old English for Blood Magic. Having acquainted herself with Old English during a productive summer, Hermione had been able to translate some of the spells in the book. She had never thought the book would ever prove useful; it had simply been an intellectual pursuit, one of her many self-imposed mental challenges.

Time had not been on her side. Thus, fashioning a concoction or creating a spell of her own had been out of the question. As a result, Hermione had only been able to bring to her mind a spell in the book; by using the spell, an individual could transfer some of their magic to someone else in order to heal them, as an overabundance of magic in one's system, that is, magic with the intention of healing, could do great wonders. However, the spell left the person who had casted the magic with less pleasant effects; their magic would take time to restore itself— or worse, it could permanently be damaged.

Hermione had transferred most of her magic to Narcissa. Presently, she felt bone-tired, as if her very life force were nearly depleted. Though she could feel some of her magic within herself, sizzling under her skin, it was weak and frail; she wondered to what extent she could still use it.

She gazed below at a fresh scar on the palm of her hand. She had cut herself, as the spell had required her to give a drop of her blood to Narcissa.

"I had to," she finally said to Andromeda, whispering. Had there really been a choice? As she thought of Narcissa's silver eyes, of the desperation she had found there, Hermione knew she would have succumbed to Narcissa's entreat a thousand times over. She sighed, mentally reprimanding herself: ' _Stop being_ _so bloody self-sacrificing… '._

She peered up. A sad smile frolicked across Andromeda's face, which had been moistened by perspiration and tears. "Thank you," Hermione heard the witch murmur.

She nodded, inelegantly receiving her gratitude before gazing down at Narcissa again. "'Meda," she then muttered, having suddenly realized something of importance.

"Yes?" said Andromeda gently.

"I think it's best if we don't tell her how it was done… I don't want her to feel troubled, seeing how delicate her cond—"

"I won't," interjected Andromeda; she had quickly understood Hermione's request.

They continued to sit, still and waiting for Narcissa to stir. Soon, Hermione was adrift in her thoughts, while she listened to Narcissa's soft breaths, and the grandfather clock in the room clicking rhythmically in the background.

She had not told Andromeda the spell could have other consequences.

When she had casted the spell, she had seen a golden, magical thread form between herself and Narcissa; and then, she had been blighted with hazy and disorganized thoughts, emotions and memories in her mind, none of which had been her own. Hermione supposed they had been the dreams Narcissa had been experiencing in her unconsciousness.

And they had overwhelmed her.

She had particularly been staggered by the joy and euphoria she had felt when she had seen a baby boy held tenderly in tired, slender arms, and she had felt herself drown in absolute agony when this very boy, though much older, lay still and unmoving on a cold, marble floor. Quivering, pale hands had clenched his shirt. She could feel a cry— not hers, though it had very well felt like hers— emanating out of a parched throat.

Then, she had wanted to end it—end the excruciating, unbearable pain. The slim, pale hand had reached for a wand...

Hermione sighed, as she recalled another version of this day—her own memory: she had hurriedly bolted across the Great Hall, seizing the wand from the woman's hand, disturbed by how this seemingly unsinkable being had turned so utterly subdued and war torn.

They had been some of Narcissa's emotions— some of her most poignant memories, ensnared out of her by the spell, and somehow sent to her through some sort of connection that had been formed. Hermione had wished they would stop attacking her mind, as they had reminded her of her own deeply repressed and hidden sorrow, of the death of loved ones, and untimely goodbyes…

And now that Hermione knew them and had felt them as if they had been her own—now that some of Narcissa's memories were embellished onto her psyche, ceaselessly cavorting in her mind, she wondered if they could ever be forgotten.

Hermione felt possessed; her lips thinned, whilst she had the uneasy feeling that Narcissa had become her muse.

* * *

Dusk had soon turned to dawn. Andromeda and Hermione had fallen asleep, breaths syncing with Narcissa's.

The door to the guest bedroom cracked open, and a little chubby boy, donning only a diaper, waddled forwards. Curious as to why his grandmother had not woken him, he gazed about, and his attention fell on the one person he did not yet know in the room. Excited by the stranger's presence, he toddled towards the bed, and leapt onto her side. His hand extended and shortly patted the witch's cheek. He heard her stir and grumble softly. At this, he began to giggle, having found it somehow amusing. He continued to lightly slap her cheek until her eyes had slowly opened. Narcissa was welcomed into awareness by brown, globular eyes.

"Hi!" the little boy exclaimed.

Though disoriented, she managed to crack a small smile. "... Hello, little one," she murmured, half-dazed and terribly tired. "What's your name?"

He grinned. "Teddy!"

Teddy?

Her nephew, Teddy?

She suddenly recalled last night; the memory of yesterday evening had collapsed onto her consciousness in one fell swoop. Narcissa shuddered as she lifted herself upwards, and leaned against the headboard of the bed, whilst feeling terribly sore and tender. She slowly gazed about at her environs, and found two witches sleeping in chairs on either side of her. One had dark curls. She had perched her head against the back of her chair. Most assuredly lost in a nightmare, her brows were furrowed and her lips were pursed. She could recognize her anywhere— _Andromeda_.

Meanwhile, the other woman was younger than the former. Her nearly untamable, brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail. As Narcissa recognized the female, her pulse began to pound louder. She observed how Hermione had perched her head against her hand, lost in sleep. She noticed a small gash against her palm, and recalled how it had not been there before. Her gaze wandered to Hermione's eyes, and there she noticed how eye bags had marred them. Had she wept? Her lips were slightly ajar in a way that made her appear rather… endearing.

Narcissa's lips suddenly pursed and she looked away, unable to handle Hermione's presence (and unable to handle where her thoughts had travelled).

Her gown was clean and fresh, and a little large on her. It belonged to Andromeda. Sunlight peered in through the window, illuminating the room. Droplets of red were on the cream carpet below, and her heart sank as she wondered if her older sister had lived up to her promise...

The boy beside her stopped giggling and began to bounce his bum on the bed. "Nana!" he cried. "I'm hungwy."

Narcissa watched Andromeda and Hermione rouse. Her sister rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms, and when her attention fell on her, her dark eyes shimmered. "Cissy!" she exclaimed, springing forwards. Narcissa suddenly found herself enveloped in a very snug embrace. Her cheeks began to be peppered with kisses.

"You're... strangling me, 'Meda," she said. Her voice had been muffled by her sister's chest against her mouth.

When Narcissa was no longer clutched in her sister's arms, she studied her face, and observed the faint lines near her dark eyes— strangers, and reminders of the years that had vanished.

"I've missed you so!" Andromeda smiled. Her lips then suddenly quivered and her eyes glistened. "I thought this day would never come…" She raised her hand and gently caressed Narcissa's pale cheek. Her smile had begun to turn into a frown. "Cissy..." she whispered, squeezing her sister's hand gently. "Will you forgive me for leaving you?"

Narcissa softly exhaled. Andromeda's elopement with a Muggleborn had taken her choices and adolescent frivolity. To right her wrong, she had been impelled to marry Lucius. But what use was there in discussing bygones? "You're still very melodramatic," groaned Narcissa.

"I'm hungwy, Nana!" Teddy moaned again.

She smirked at her sister. "I'm also quite famished, 'Meda. I might be more willing to forgive you on a full stomach."

Andromeda began to chuckle, as she rose from the bed and perched Teddy on her hip. "Oh dear, I think I've missed your wit most of all," she said as she left through the door.

When she had gone, Narcissa's attention fell on the woman sitting beside her in a chair. She had been completely silent throughout her interaction with her sister—so hushed, Narcissa had almost forgotten she had been there. She smiled awkwardly and appeared rather uncomfortable. Narcissa gauged the witch possibly felt she had intruded on a private moment. Hermione's cheeks reddened under her gaze, and her brown eyes shortly flickered away, unable to hold Narcissa's intense stare.

She then gulped and brought her attention back to Narcissa. The silence was heavy and laden with apprehension, and it spoke of a secret they had not shared with anyone. They simply stared at one another. Silver peered into brown with distrust, and something more—hope, fear—

A caution and a question.

Hermione bit her lips. "I haven't told Andromeda," she whispered, and then she had suddenly begun to gently shake her head, as hot tears trickled down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry—I'm not sure if the baby—if it worked." Her nearly smothered voice came through the cracks between her fingers.

Narcissa's hand moved to her abdomen and her palm softly settled against it. She thought of a little girl with brown eyes and wild, untamable hair running through a garden. Her voice quivered when she spoke. "Perhaps, it was meant to be," she whispered.

Hermione let her hands drop from her face when she heard Narcissa's voice laced with heartache. When she met her silver eyes, she saw a tear escape and fall down her ivory skin.

The door suddenly flung open and in came Andromeda. She noticed that the tone in the room had drastically changed. She looked at the lone tear dribbling down her sister's cheek and frowned, instantly knowing its cause. When she turned her attention to Hermione, she stared at her quizzically, wondering why the witch had been weeping profusely about a matter that shouldn't have distressed her so profoundly.

When she neared the bedside, she warmly smiled down at her sister, whilst gently clenching her shoulder. "I made you your favourite: a chocolate and strawberry crêpe with a warm latte on the side."

Narcissa attempted to smile. "Thank-," she began, but she lost control over her voice; her voice had suddenly hitched and she had wrapped her arms around Andromeda's middle, burying her head into her sister's stomach. Andromeda heard her sniffles. She wound her arms around her and stooped her head down, kissing the top of her head. As she brushed her blonde hair with her fingers, she said, "Remember what Maman would say?" she chuckled sadly, "Much of what she said was vacuous, but … one of her sayings helped me through much of my life—"

Narcissa peered up at her sister, waiting for her next words.

"One day at a time," murmured Andromeda. "One day at a time, Cissy," she repeated.

Narcissa slowly nodded and dried her tears with her hand.

"Now come—the both of you," said Andromeda, as she placed her finger under Narcissa's chin, lifted her head, and smiled at her before gazing at Hermione. "Let's eat!"

"I'd love to really," said Hermione. "But… I'm late for work." A lie. She believed the two needed some time together, and had correctly come to imagine that her presence made Narcissa tense. Besides, Hermione had to gather herself, and she could not do so here.

Andromeda frowned. "Very well. Do you want me to pack your breakfast for you?"

"Thank you, Meda," answered Hermione. "But that won't be necessary. I'll ask my secretary to grab me breakfast."

As she later floo'd away, Hermione thought of her present as a road forking into two paths. One would cause her to remain on the same trajectory: a life with Ron, which entailed quiet weekends alone, while he spent time with his mates, discussing Qudditch—a life wherein she would always question if he would have been happier without her, if she had failed him, and if he even understood how she struggled to please him.

And then she thought of the other path, a life full of many unknowns, where a little girl would stroke happiness onto her life, where she could watch her round, perceptive eyes light up at her presence, and at the curiosities of the universe—a life in which she could watch something beautiful grow from all the love she had within herself.

But, a life Ron might not wish to share.

Feeling guilt-ridden for hoping the second route would come to fruition, Hermione pursed her lips as she arrived at her office.

She knew today would be one long day of many, but at least there was a bar stand in her lounge.

* * *

Have an exam in two days, and yet here I am, writing! I've noticed that I write quicker and I get more ideas when I'm procrastinating. Figures? Haha. You might have noticed that I'm adding prose, poetry, etc. that I've written at the top of each chapter. I think they help set the tone for the chapter.

Anyhow, your thoughts are welcomed, as always. Thank you so much for all the reviews! I've been astounded by all the feedback I'm getting. They've been a good source of motivation. You guys are such a lovely bunch! :)


	7. Chapter 6: No Friend Like a Sister

**Chapter 6: No Friend Like a Sister**

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 _"For there is no friend like a sister  
In calm or stormy weather;  
To cheer one on the tedious way,  
To fetch one if one goes astray,  
To lift one if one totters down,  
To strengthen whilst one stands."_

 _~ Christina Rossetti_

* * *

While holding a shawl tightly around her lean shoulders, Narcsisa quietly stared at the pictures on the wall by the staircase. Her gaze darted across her two sisters standing between her in the picture. Memories of Hogwarts and her formative years came to her mind's eye much like a dream—vividly, and in pronounced colour and chaos. Meanwhile, her elder sister, who stood at the bottom of the stairs, observed Narcissa adrift in her trance, and commenced to also ruminate about what once was:

Their mother and father had always been calculating with their love. Love at the Black household was a commodity and a scarcity. It came with a price. Like house elves, the children had to put immense effort into placating their elders.

Ironically, Bellatrix had loved her parents the most. Passion incarnate, Bellatrix had spent much of her time at Hogwarts in detention. She had been terrible at Arithmancy, but had been astounding in DADA, as she was never one to enjoy the theoretical; practicality, tradition, and the established—these were her values and the values of her parents. Being their first child, Bellatrix had been bounded by responsibility—impelled and driven to set an example for her sisters. And ideals are dangerous creatures: they are visions of perfection in an imperfect world, and Bellatrix, alas, had become one. Insanity would consume her.

While Andromeda, the middle child, was neither loved like Bellatrix or spoiled like Narcissa. At Hogwarts, she had been the romantic: every other month, she had another paramour (that is, until she had stumbled on Ted). At home, her relationship with her parents had been distant and disconnected. Her and Sirius had been an inseparable duo, and it was of no doubt that their similarities, and sense of detachment from their families had brought them together. Thus, she had been gifted by her circumstances with the sensibility to leave.

And finally: Narcissa, the very last. She had been the most quiet, sensitive and precocious of the three. She was several years younger than her older sisters, who had been of a more similar age (and hence, less doting with one another). Deplored at first for being not only unexpected but another girl, little Narcissa had nonetheless been able to charm her way into everyone's hearts with her intelligence, grace and magnetism. Andromeda supposed it had been her aura of mystery; at a young age, instead of playing with dolls or tittle-tattling, she was reading dense books, and experimenting with spells and concoctions. Dumbledore and nearly every professor at Hogwarts had styled her as the greatest witch of her time. Even their father, Cygnus had adored her more than his other children (and his affection—though meagre— had been quite an oddity, as he had scarcely doted on his other children). He had realized her brilliance when he had received a letter from Hogwarts asking him to allow his daughter to become Professor McGonagall's apprentice. "If you had been a boy," Cygnus had once said to her during one of his drunken stupors, "you could have done great things."

But unfortunately, Narcissa had been a girl, and at seventeen, as soon she had passed her NEWT with flying colours, she had been betrothed to Lucius, as the Malfoys had paid Cygnus, a man more in love with his status and wealth than his children, a handsome dowry. At eighteen, Narcissa had been married off, and within a year, she had bore an heir for him.

And like a flame that had perished with a breath, Narcissa had been smothered—her talents, her intelligence, and her gifts… all for naught.

Curious as to why her elder sister, Andromeda had left, but too indecisive and afraid to follow her footsteps, Narcissa had been spread thin— chained and attached to everyone.

Andromeda suddenly realized her younger sister was the observer of the household. Within herself, she held all the stories of her loved ones—she was burdened with being the narrator of their lives. In many ways, Narcissa was like her late cousin and closest friend, Regulus, who too had had the misfortune of being the youngest in his household—by being the youngest, they had been cursed with candidly loving every member in their family.

While staring at her little sister gazing at the pictures with her furrowed pale brows, Andromeda suddenly said, "Stop it, Cissy."

Narcissa was whirled out of her reverie, and remembrance of every wound her loved ones had acquired through the years. Her grey eyes spun around to her. "Pardon, 'Meda?" she asked.

Andromeda sighed. "You're haunted by our lives. Stop it." She creased her forehead, as she pondered over how she could express all her thoughts succinctly. She began with a breath, and then said, "You must love yourself, Cissy."

Narcissa flinched, having recalled a day she would have rather not remembered.

"You have your own story," Andromeda continued, "and it still needs to be finished. You must realize you married much too early... you are still young, clever, and beautiful." Another sigh. Andromeda clasped a limb of the staircases's railing when she continued, "Cissy, a great portion of your life remains. You mustn't let others write it for you."

Her silver eyes were frantic, frightened at being briefly unmasked. "I am..." she began hesitantly, feeling the words in her mouth, "not certain if I am a good writer, 'Meda." She then chuckled sadly, almost awkwardly. It was a rare sight, as she was seldom uncomposed.

"Cissy... you see, I have realized," argued Andromeda, "that one is the writer of their life _and_ the reader." She smiled. "Just be sure to make the story good enough for you, Cissy. That's all that really matters."

Narcissa paused for a moment as she considered her words. She then chuckled again, muttering snidely, "The last time I had seen you, you were quite the fool."

At this, Andromeda began to laugh. "Remember, that one time I thought you were shagging someone, but you were sneaking into the forbidden section at the library in Hogwarts?"

Narcissa smirked devilishly, and Andromeda was glad to see her signature smug smile. "I was savouring both... vices."

"You devious little… !" exclaimed Andromeda. "With who?"

Narcissa frowned and her gaze turned evasive. "It was just a... fleeting liaison."

"I see…" whispered Andromeda at a loss for words, and taken aback by the slight pause in Narcissa's response. It was a cue to not push her further. At times, Narcissa was like a bird—the risk of her flying away augmented the nearer you got to her.

Andromeda then observed her sister as she then began to stroll down the stairs. Narcissa began to look at the other pictures on the wall; the portraits of her niece mostly took her notice. She neared a picture of Nymphadora when she was graduating from Hogwarts. Her slender finger trailed her person. "She is—was beautiful, 'Meda. She looked very much like you." Narcissa's voice had trembled when she had changed tenses. A mother should never have to refer to her child in past tense, she thought to herself—it wasn't fair.

She shuddered, having recalled the killer of her niece.

Her own sister, Bellatrix—of the same blood and upbringing. Narcissa pursed her lips. She questioned if her blood was cursed (as she had a million times before).

Andromeda's eyes glistened. "Really?" she asked. "I've always thought she looks a bit like you. Hold on," she strode up the stairs, and shortly opened a locket she wore around her neck. "Very few know, but her hair was like yours," she began. "However, she thought she never suited the colour."

Narcissa stared at the little girl in the locket. Her hair was flaxen, long and silky, though her eyes were dark like her mother's. If Narcissa had not known the person in the portrait, she would have briefly mistaken her for herself.

"She resembles you here. Doesn't she?" whispered Andromeda. "Like you, Dora was also quite intelligent," she continued. "She would always be lost in books... And did you know? She also had a hat stall like you between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, though she chose neither." She chuckled. "Dora said she abhorred how Hogwarts forced people into different houses— that she would rather be in Hufflepuff, where people of every kind could be accepted, and loved for who they were." Andromeda shut her eyes as she finished speaking, and her face contorted; she thought of the last day she had seen her daughter, of when she had been lying flaccidly on the cold, marble floor in the Great Hall. A green light had hit her chest.

Bellatrix had cackled.

And just like that—she was gone.

Narcissa neared her sister, and hung a curl behind her ear. "I will always regret not knowing her, 'Meda," she whispered.

Andromeda frowned. She unbolted her eyes and a stray tear fell. "Tell me about Draco, Cissy."

Narcissa breathed in shakily. "He was terribly… " Her voice trailed off, as she thought of how she could explain her departed son—how could she possibly accurately describe his infinite essence? "He was gentle, and yet… much too brave for his own good," she finally decided, "though Lucius regards him as a coward... for changing sides." Narcissa then shook her head and clenched her forehead with her index finger and thumb. She could feel an imminent headache. "I abhor him when he disparages my son. I often wonder if he truly means it or if it's his way of mourning... "

"To hell with Lucius," said Andromeda. She had turned enraged; her complexion had flushed, and her nostrils had flared. "He is absolutely undeserving of a child like Draco. I couldn't believe it when I heard he wasn't sentenced—"

"'Meda, he is a broken man," Narcissa interrupted, as she stepped onto the first floor, while lightly touching her abdomen, and pondering if there was still a life within the darkness of her womb. If there was—her lips thinned—perhaps it was a blessing that Lucius was not her child's father. "Forgive him."

Andromeda sighed, as they strode towards the kitchen. "Have you?"

Narcissa grimaced. She thought over the question. During her last year at Hogwarts, every pureblood family had coveted to have her as their bride. Nevertheless, she had refused every proposal, as she had been unsure as to where the matters of her heart rested, and had thusly felt far too young to marry.

But pureblood society would not permit her to have her choices. After having refused Lucius' affection at Hogwarts, he had become infuriated, as her rejection had offended his ego. To ensure her hand in marriage, Lucius had then taken the matter to his father. Abraxias Malfoy had subsequently given a large dowry, one that would be unrivalled, to Cygnus Black.

Lucius had bought her, as though she were an article— a thing that could be sold and purchased.

"I can forgive him," said Narcissa after a pause, "for what he has done to me, but I cannot forgive him… for what he did to my son," she finally answered. "And I cannot forgive myself either for allowing it to happen," she voiced her afterthought.

"You must stop blaming yourself, Cissy," Andromeda replied. "I... did the same thing for a long time, and it becomes terribly exhausting. It wasn't your fault— what happened to Draco."

"I should have protected him," Narcissa countered.

"He was a brave boy," argued Andromeda. "You said so yourself. You had raised him well, and had done everything you could."

"No, 'Meda. I failed him."

Andromeda sighed, exasperated by her sister's unjustified remorse.

When they had seated themselves by the table where their breakfast lay, Narcissa whispered, "This world is terribly unkind... And yet, I want _her_... Is that selfish of me? Am I a terrible person for wanting to have her in a world where—"

"Cissy, you are capable of ensuring a splendid life for your child," Andromeda replied, as she warmed their breakfast with a charm. Their food had gotten cold. "Trust yourself."

Narcissa clenched the mug that held her latte in her hands. She wondered if she should tell her sister of the secret. But what if a child was not in her future? What use would there be in disclosing the secret if there was not a worthy cause?

And what if a certain woman with brown eyes and hair that was often ruffled did not want Andromeda to know?

Perhaps, Narcissa's Slytherin mind then mused, she should say a half-truth: _Tell her you had an affair. "'_ Meda," she began. "I... I must tell you something," she stammered, tentative.

The darker haired witch had begun to dig into her crepe. "Teddy didn't seem to enjoy it," she mumbled, as she neared her fork to her lips. "I fear that it might not taste good."

"Where is the boy now?" asked Narcissa.

"I floo'd him to Harry for the day after I fed him. I thought it would be best if we spent some time alone together."

Narcissa frowned. "If you thought I had found him a nuisance—"

"No, _I_ would have found him a nuisance," Andromeda interjected, as soon as she had finished chewing. "You can see him as much as you'd like when he comes home. _Oh, sorry,"_ she suddenly apologized, having recalled that her sister had muttered something while she had been taking a bite from her crepe. _"_ What were you saying?"

Narcissa sighed. The brief off-tangent conversation had given her enough time to become more hesitant. "Nothing of significance."

"I am your sister," stressed Andromeda. "I can therefore see past your shite—well, at least most of it."

Narcissa snorted. "When did you become so vulgar?"

"That... um — happened because of Ted," answered Andromeda. "He was quite uninhibited with his choice of words." She momentarily smiled, as she recalled her husband, but her eyes soon turned piercing and her nose pinched. Her expression had unsoftened. She had become serious. "Now tell me. Why did you suddenly come to me after years of being estranged, drenched in your own blood, and with nowhere else to go?"

A beat.

Narcissa hadn't replied. Her lips had simply quivered, words waiting to escape.

Andromeda knew she had to answer her question for her. "If you are the girl I once knew, you would have never done something so asinine— _Merlin's beard,_ what were you thinking Narcissa? You could have come to me — or a Muggle clinic where you would have been safe—" She suddenly noted how Narcissa's head had lowered in shame; she was sniffling. Her nose and her pale cheeks had turned slightly ruddy. _Hormones,_ Andromeda mentally said. "Cissy, please don't cry—"

"No, you're... right," mumbled Narcissa sheepishly. "I am an absolute imbecile."

Andromeda frowned. "Oh, shut up. That's not what I meant. Everyone used to call you the brightest witch of your generation." She chuckled. "Although, I must profess, the young woman you saw today—"

"I am not daft, 'Meda. I know who she is," Narcissa interjected, incensed.

"Well, you called yourself an imbecile a moment ago," said Andromeda. Narcissa furrowed her brows, and Andromeda enjoyed the sight. _Definitely the hormones…_ "What was I saying? Ah, yes. Hermione... she might be a tad more intelligent than you."

Narcissa's breath had hitched at the woman's name. Andromeda had noticed, but had believed her jibe had simply riled her sister's ego. She tsked. "I'm teasing. I'd say it's a tie between the two of you. Anyway, where was I? ... You wouldn't have done this without a good reason." She pulled her hair to one side, as she then sighed and further pondered. "I can only assume you've been in a dalliance," she concluded. Her voice then lowered in volume. "And someone other than Lucius is the father." She frowned. "Is he not willing to help you?"

 _Well_ , Narcissa mused, Andromeda was nearly close to the truth. Not even the brightest witch could have guessed her predicament more accurately, she thought (and certainly not when the two greatest witches were the ones entangled in this complication). Narcissa decided to remain mute. She flicked the tears off her cheeks with her fingers before sipping on her cup.

The silence had spoken for itself. Suddenly, Andromeda began to chortle heartily; she held her hand against her stomach, as she snickered and shook her head in disbelief. "Oh gods, Cissy—" she was interrupted by her own laughter.

Narcissa lifted a brow. This certainly wasn't the reaction she was expecting, but she was not alarmed, as Regulus would often tell her how both of her sisters did not only resemble each other, but they were also slightly unhinged (though her second eldest sibling, of course, was the more harmless lunatic of the two).

Andromeda realized she had to explain her response when she noticed unamused silver eyes. "Sorry. You see… I'm quite proud of you for shagging someone else. Lucius bloody deserves it!"

Narcissa rolled her eyes as she cut her crepe with a knife and a fork. _Idiot_. "The boy's assessment of your cooking was grounded in good reason," she then stated coolly when she had finished chewing. "You've added too much salt." She smirked. A comeback. She had criticized her cooking purposefully.

Andromeda stopped chuckling at that. "Oh, Cissy. I fear one aspect of the common lifestyle I've never been able to learn is cooking. I just can't seem to do it well!"

Narcissa's smirk grew. "Maman would argue how you've never done anything well."

"I certainly made a good conjecture a moment ago," said Andromeda. She had wanted to further probe the matter and find the varlet who had played Narcissa, but Andromeda had quickly recalled how she could never draw anything out of her tight lipped sister against her will.

Meanwhile, Narcissa breathed in. She wished it had just been a liaison, as everything would have then been…. well, less confusing and complex. The situation was tremendously more complicated than a mere affair (of course, Narcissa couldn't divulge that to Andromeda). "It is awfully difficult, 'Meda," she exhaled, "when you feel that your life is not in your hands."

"Is it ever?" asked Andromeda. "Nevertheless, although we can't control what happens to us, we always have control over our responses."

"What should I do, then?" whispered Narcissa. "In which fashion should I respond...?"

Her sister turned pensive. "Leave," she whispered.

"Pardon?" asked Narcissa; she questioned if she had heard her right.

"Lucius. Leave him," said Andromeda. "It's time, Narcissa, for you to do the right thing for yourself."

"' _Meda_..." she whispered her sister's name, not knowing what to say at first. "Lucius and I ... " — _Lucius and I, what?_ — _"_ we - we have been ... married for much too long," she stammered, as she realized there was simply no satisfying excuse for why she had remained married to him.

"He does not understand your worth, Cissy," Andromeda argued.

Narcissa bit her underlip. Lucius had once been affectionate towards her. She had never loved him, but he had once… doted on her, Narcissa supposed. Nevertheless, had he ever loved her? How could she say the person that had purloined her autonomy from her had ever truly loved her? And had she ever loved him? How could she have ever loved him when he had stolen her freedom?

"What are you afraid of?" asked Andromeda. "Maman and Papa are gone. Bellatrix is no longer standing over your head. Everyone we used to know... has gone to the other side." Narcissa's hand was on the table. Her head had lowered, as she had become lost in thought, lost in the possibilities of what could be. Andromeda gently clenched her sister's hand in order to awaken her from her muses. "You are free to do as you wish."

Narcissa's lips pursed before she parted them slowly. "Will my life be any different" she whispered, "if I leave and live alone? Draco... will still be gone—"

"But you won't be alone."

Perplexed, Narcissa's eyebrows crunched. She lifted her attention away from the wooden dinner table, where she had been aimlessly gazing, to her sister.

Andromeda understood she had to clarify herself. "Your dream. When you came here, you told me you dreamt of a girl—a daughter."

Narcissa grimaced. Her gaze flickered away, as she batted her lashes in an attempt to hold back her tears, but a stubborn tear fell when she croaked, "It was just a dream..."

"Or a premonition."

"'Meda..." she pleaded, her voice quivered. " _Don't._ I - I can't put my faith in a dream."

"You don't have to, but I will," Andromeda replied. She then gently cupped Narcissa's chin and turned her face around, so that it would face hers. "Cissy, I will always be here for you."

And Narcissa knew this to be the truth. It was, after all, why she had chosen to come to Andromeda when she had been struggling to think of the one person who would be willing to help her unreservedly. Thus, Narcsisa smiled genuinely, and stared into her sister's warm, caring eyes. Fate had not permitted them to be in each other's lives for some time. Years stood between them. But in her sister's eyes, Narcissa saw all that she had seen every day in the mirror.

Loss.

They did not have to explain their respective absence in the other's life. Narcissa smiled sadly. "I've missed you," she whispered—confessed.

And she had the undying feeling that life would never be the same—by reuniting with her sister, she had gone against the wishes of her mother and father, of Bellatrix, and … Lucius. In their perspectives, her rekindled relationship with her sister warranted her disownment; her portrait would have to be burned off the tapestry. She would be another disappointment. Another rebel. Another failure in their eyes.

And Narcissa wondered why she was all right with that. And Narcissa realized she had always known she was a disappointment, always known that her little boy had inherited some of his goodness and defiance from her uncontrollable heart.

"I always knew Maman and Papa were doomed with two black sheep," murmured Andromeda. Damn her sister for having read her thoughts. "You were far too... _sane_."

Narcissa chuckled; she certainly did not feel sane. "And yet, they say I am the best at Occulmency," she replied. She shook her head. "Is there anything I can hide from you, 'Meda?" She questioned if Andromeda was privy to the secret, and hoped she had kept it well hidden (and yet, she desired it to be uncovered by her sister, as carrying it felt terribly heavy).

Her sister smirked. "Perhaps not." There was a glint in her eyes. Had her smirk entailed she knew more than she expressed? Narcissa pondered. She wondered if Andromeda understood more than she divulged, but was too afraid to ask her. "I... hate you," she then said under her breath, as she sipped on her latte. She hated how her mask was less impenetrable before her sister. She felt exposed and...

Yet, lighter.

Her sister's smirk grew. "No, you don't."

Narcissa huffed. She was right. Damn her once more. _And damn this headache..._ She squeezed her temple between her fingers. _"Gods._ Do you have a potion for this bloody headache?" she cursed, irate. Her lips were puckered; she was frowning.

Andromeda thought her little sister's grouchiness was positively cute. She chuckled. "Of course," she replied.

* * *

Author's Note: So, I thought it was necessary to draw on Narcissa's past in order to further solidify her character. Also, I thought some dialogue between Andromeda and Narcissa was required, since they haven't conversed with each other in many years. But don't fret! Narcissa and Hermione will certainly interact more as we progress further into this fic.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Your thoughts are welcomed. Thank you so much for all the feedback and wonderful reviews :). I think I've begun to love you guys!


	8. Chapter 7: Walking on Thin Ice

**Chapter 7: Walking on Thin Ice**

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 _"It's a strange world of language in which skating on thin ice can get you into hot water"_

 _~ Franklin P. Jones_

* * *

In the corner of the Leakey Cauldron, half-hidden amongst the shadows created by the other guests at the pub, Hermione sat alone and expectantly. The drunken conversations and chuckles of those around her were lulled by her thoughts. A few days ago, in one of her drunken stupors (a condition in which she found herself quite often these days), she had contacted Andromeda through a letter, and had asked to meet her at the Leakey Cauldron.

And, there was a problem—Hermione had said a little bit too much in the letter. She had mentioned, well, everything. Hermione had felt impelled to confide in someone. Keeping the secret to herself for a moment longer had felt impossible, as the secret had grown and grown until it had enlarged to a point where she had feared it would have smothered her.

 _If Mrs. Malfoy finds out, she's going to hate_ _me_ , Hermione mentally reprimanded herself. She sighed, irate at how alcohol rendered her utterly irresponsible.

"Hermione?" said a woman suddenly.

She lifted her gaze from her hands, which she had tightly folded and placed atop the table before her, and found the warm, brown eyes of Andromeda Tonks peering down at her. _Andromeda knows._ Someone finally knew. Comforted by her sight, hot tears suddenly began to rush down her cheeks. She tried to swallow them down; but, like a gushing well, they were incessant.

"Shh," said the older woman. She leaned towards her and wiped her cheeks with her fingers. "Let us go somewhere more private?"

Soon, they had Apparated to Andromeda's residence. "Teddy is fast asleep," said Andromeda as she led Hermione into the living room by gesturing with her hand. Hermione recalled the last time she had come here—she thought of bloodied sheets, pale skin marred by crimson, and blonde hair wet with perspiration.

She shuddered at the memory.

Andromeda was about to leave to make tea, but Hermione momentarily stopped her from achieving her endeavour with a question: "Is she all right?" she whispered.

Andromeda, who stood near the corridor that led her to the kitchen, sighed as she turned around and faced Hermione. She pursed her lips and lightly shrugged her shoulders. "I have seen her a couple of times. Her face has been turning gaunt. She barely eats. Barely speaks." Andromeda grimaced. "Her present condition is… understandable, of course." Her dark eyes were glassy with concern and fear. "Nevertheless, she has gotten me quite worried."

At this, Hermione crumpled her temples. Ever since the night wherein she had healed the witch, she had the nagging feeling that there was something terribly amiss with the woman. For one, the annual Hallowe'en Ball—where the crème de la crème of society was invited—had transpired, but the witch had not attended, and she was never one to miss a public event of importance. But furthermore, Hermione had dreadful, horrible dreams of the last battle in the Great Hall, of blonde tresses soaked in red, of a mother who lost her son, and of an indomitable woman shattered by the cruelty of war.

And she feared that she would press a wand to her chest again. Hermione's lips quivered at the thought.

 _No_. Her hands turned into fists. She could not let that happen.

"Thank you," said Hermione when Andromeda had returned back with a tray that held tea cups, a tea pot and some biscuits. Hermione silently watched Andromeda as she sat beside her and poured her tea for her. She noticed how her hands were slightly more fleshy and robust than her sister's lean, willowy hands—and she recalled those hands against hers in the bookstore, the way they had fidgeted at the clinic, and how they had been frighteningly cold during that night, and so warm from fresh blood during the battle when she had removed her wand from her hold.

"I'm terrified," she whispered to Andromeda after taking a sip from her cup of peppermint tea. She was frightened of living a lie with Ron by never telling him of the secret, of wondering if she would be alright (and if Narcissa would be alright, and… if fate would still grant her a little girl).

Evidently, the heat from the tea had failed to soothe her nerves. "Oh gods, 'Meda. I've been—such a… such a wreck," stammered Hermione. At work, she was absolutely of no use. Never mind that her magic had now been damaged, and she could not effectively cast magic anymore—she could not even concentrate. There were piles of files on her desk, and even Ron, who failed to notice changes in her disposition, had asked her if everything was alright. Harry, on the other hand, was terribly concerned, and she knew he desired to prod her about her state; however, her conscience would not allow her to divulge in him the secret out of respect for Narcissa's need for privacy.

But keeping the secret hidden had proved to be awfully difficult—alone with her worries, Hermione had felt the need to tell someone—and Andromeda, sister to Narcissa, had been the most fitting choice. Hermione sighed. "I promised Mrs. Malfoy I wouldn't tell anyone. But I couldn't keep it to myself—I promised her I would, but…" she said, frowning. "Please, don't—"

She was interrupted by Andromeda. "Don't worry, pet. I shan't tell a soul." The witch placed a hand against Hermione's. The tea in her cup had been quivering; Hermione suddenly realized it had been her hands that had been shaking, but Andromeda's touch had softened their jerks. "I want to share a secret with you," said Andromeda.

Hermione nodded slowly. It seemed her life was now entangled in secrets and the clandestine.

"My sister does not _really_ hate you," she continued.

At that, Hermione suddenly chuckled at the absurdity of her statement. She looked away from the cup of tea clasped between her hands to the wily twinkle in Andromeda's eyes. "Is this… your secret?" she asked with a small smile.

Andromeda smirked. " _Yes_ ," she answered, then she sniggered devilishly and it reminded Hermione of Sirius' free-spirited laughter. "My sister most likely hates you, but not as much as you've led yourself to believe."

If Hermione's gut instinct was right, Andromeda was every bit as Slytherin as her sister, and she most likely had something up her sleeve. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked the witch tentatively while placing her cup of tea onto the mahogany, coffee table before her. She could not help but notice how the walls around her were a dark emerald. Though Andromeda had been forsaken by her family and her friends, she had never been able to let go of the fundamental qualities (and thus tastes) of a Slytherin and a pureblood: she was still cunning, devious and self-possessed. "You're frightened of seeing my sister, are you not?" asked Andromeda.

Hermione's gaze flickered away from her eyes, and Andromeda saw the physical reaction to her question as a sufficient response. "Merlin's bloody beard," she cursed. "You're both utterly asinine. You thought you could keep this a secret—even if the child in question is no longer…" Andromeda did not finish her sentence as she noticed how Hermione's eyes had welled with restrained tears. "Anyhow, what I mean to say is: You see, you have me, but my sister needs to be supported by someone who is privy to her situation—and I am, of course, but she doesn't know that… and much like you, I don't want her to lose her trust in you, as then she will be consumed by the fear of you unburdening yourself with more people." She sighed, and Hermione knew where she going with her lengthy dialogue.

"You want me to talk to her?" whispered Hermione, dreading the possibility of a conversation with the witch.

"Yes. It'll be of benefit to the both of you," said Andromeda. She placed her cup of tea on the coffee table beside Hermione's. And then, she cupped the younger witch's face and moved it towards hers. "Listen to me. You need to see my idiot of a sister. You need to talk to her. I know you're clever. Figure out a way to … make her more cordial towards you. " She started to bite her lips, and Hermione was reminded of how Narcissa also bit her lips when she was lost in her thoughts or worried. "…But I fear she would never meet you if you asked her."

Hermione frowned. "You lied! She really hates me." _And why do I even care?_

"… Perhaps. But don't fret, dear. She isn't fond of people, generally."

"That doesn't make me feel better." Hermione's sulk enlarged.

Andromeda smirked and Hermione could not help but recall Narcissa's upturned crimson lips, and piercing, grey eyes peering down at her with contempt _. Oh gods._ Hermione felt something heavy in her stomach whirl. The recollection had made her even more frightful of facing Narcissa. "There's no point…" she whispered to Andromeda. "I mean. I can't help her. She hates me."

Exasperated by Hermione's tendency towards being self-defeating, Andromeda complained, "You're not as daft as you think, Hermione." She softly huffed, and said more so to herself, "You two are the brightest witches I know—and yet, the both of you are terribly emotionally unintelligent." She shook her head and brushed her hair as she then spun back to being aplomb. When her expression had become one of compassion again, she continued: "Never mind that," she said, smiling. "I can arrange your meeting with her. Come to Twilfitt and Tattings tomorrow at noon."

A monstrous frown was still painted on Hermione's face.

"All right?" said Andromeda before lightly hitting the younger witch's arm with a fist.

"Ouch!" exclaimed Hermione. She chuckled, though her countenance was still laced with sorrow. "Yes," she then grumbled. "Fine."

When Andromeda's dark eyes glimmered, Hermione realized the woman had been rather calm about the entire situation. "You don't look… um… startled," said Hermione.

"About what?" asked Andromeda. "Knocking up my sister? I'm quite enraged, actually!" She furrowed her brows, but Hermione knew she was being satirical, so she giggled.

"To answer your question: I was quite startled when I read your letter, but the shock was short-lived, as your letter answered a few questions I had… you see, you seemed quite affected by her situation. You had taken it very… personally."

"Oh gods," moaned Hermione. "Am I that easy to read?"

Andromeda laughed. "Yes. Now finish your tea. Tomorrow, you have a long day ahead of you."

 _Gather yourself_ , Hermione said to herself. _Breathe in. Breathe out_. But her efforts to calm herself were to no avail. Hermione realized she would have to make do with being utterly overwrought, so she threw Floo powder into the fire place of her home, and swirled into a busy and bustling shop at Diagon Alley.

When she made her way out, she noted how the sky was unusually bright and clear for London. She hoped the weather was a good omen. The air was chilling the warm sweat running down her skin. She was perspiring profusely. And she could not blame it on the weather, as it was late autumn. Not accustomed to the attention she now received, Hermione pulled the hood of her sweater over her head, and tried to stay in the shadows as she hurriedly made her way to Twilfitt and Tattings. While hastily marching towards her destination, she shoved her trembling hands into the pockets of her sweater (and briefly wondered if her clothes made her appear destitute). Questions and concerns then whirled through her mind unrelentingly.

What if Narcissa was perturbed by her presence? And besides, what could she possibly say to her that would be of comfort? Could their complex, and most complicated relationship ever blossom into a friendship?

 _Of course, not._

Andromeda was completely bonkers!

How could she ever be of comfort to the cool, reclusive and aloof, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black? And if the woman was unreceptive towards her show of cordiality, Hermione could not blame her. Though the circumstances that had befallen on her were not of Hermione's purposeful doing, Hermione could not help but blame herself—and she could very well see the irrationality in her thought process. But, alas—the rational portion of Hermione's mind and the sentimental part were rarely in agreement.

When she arrived before the cobbled exterior of the tailor shop, she took in a deep breath. She decided she was doing this for Andromeda, since the witch had requested it from her (but truthfully, Hermione did not know if she was doing it for Andromeda. She wanted to see the woman, to ensure she was alright, to ensure she _would_ be alright if she presently was not…).

Hermione snorted. (… How could she possibly help her if she feared her presence?).

The door creaked open as she traipsed in. Bells jingled. She looked about. And no one was there, save for an old, bird-like woman who wore bold, trendy eyeglasses. Her silver hair was pulled up into a pony-tail. "Um. Hello?" said Hermione.

The woman looked at her and put up a bony index finger. "Hold on for a moment, madam," she said. Her English accent revealed that she had a good command of the language, but she was not a native, as Hermione could hear a hint of French in it, and for some reason, thinking of French reminded Hermione of crepes and Narcissa. She found the association… somewhat absurd. But thoughts of this sort were not a new occurrence. Ever since she had toppled into this mess, Hermione often found her mind muddled with thoughts regarding the bloody aristocrat (and some of them were quite bizarre).

While gazing at a robe that hung on a mannequin, the scar on Hermione's hand tingled, as she suddenly heard a soft sigh, and a well-modulated voice. It was heavy like London on a cloudy day, but it was smooth like velvet, honeyed yet dark… like strawberries swirled in dark chocolate. Hermione instantly lifted her gaze. She would have recognized that voice anywhere.

She gulped. Narcissa was directly before her, donning a tight-fitting viridian velvety gown, but her gaze had not fallen against her. She was facing the tailor. " _Merlin,_ I cannot fathom why this gown no longer fits! The measurements were taken quite recently—merely a month ago." She was terribly exasperated. The zipper on her back was a quarter way down and would not go all the way up. Hermione flickered her gaze away from her smooth, pale back (but though she attempted with all her might to keep her gaze away, it resettled against the witch's back, and followed the faint bulging of her spine, before finally settling against her slender neck).

"Would you mind zipping this? And do you know where my sister has gone?" she heard the witch ask the tailor.

"She said she had forgotten to pack her grandson his lunch for Montessori," answered the tailor.

 _"Oh!"_ Narcissa softly grunted, as the tailor then attempted to pull up the zipper again by tightly holding the two pieces of cloth adjacent to the zipper, and nearing their tips to one another. Her breasts felt terribly tender. She grimaced at the soreness, and was impelled to throw propriety aside; Narcissa softly rubbed her chest for a moment while ruffling her brows, and when she had gathered her composure, she asked, "Did my sister mention when she would return by any chance?"

"Non, Madam," answered the tailor. And then, they suddenly fell into a conversation in French with some English words thrown here and there.

 _"C'est tout bonnement horrible!"_ exclaimed Narcissa in what seemed to be perfect French (Hermione recalled how Narcissa's mother was a Rosier and thus of French ancestry). " _Je ne comprends pas!"_ She huffed, and Hermione was fascinated by how the woman's voice sounded in French. Narcissa then frowned, as she stood even straighter, hoping a change in posture would do the trick. The tailor tried again but Narcissa quickly intervened when she realized her chest would be re-victimized by the pressure of the pull, " _Non! C'est marche!_ That's fine. Leave it," she said quickly. When the tailor's hands fell away from the zip, Narcissa faced her and said threateningly, "You have not measured me correctly."

The tailor frowned (and slightly quivered at the dark tones in the woman's voice). "Madam, I would never intrude on your personal life… but one hears things, and I have heard you are with-child. And in such a condition, one gets larger around their bosom and—eh, belly." She coughed awkwardly. "Really, I do not believe it is my fault," she argued.

Narcissa had stiffened and Hermione had as well. The pause persisted for some time before the aristocrat softly blew away a lock of hair that had fallen out of her elegant bun and onto her eye. " _Merci,_ but I—" she breathed in sharply, "I am aware of the indications of pregnancy," she tried to say arrogantly, but failed. Against her will, her voice had relaxed and had turned… almost wistful, thought Hermione—and it had trembled, having lost its usual prosody.

Hermione wondered and Narcissa wondered—

 _Was it possible… ?_

The pureblood turned her gaze slightly around and it was here that it fell on Hermione, who was desperately attempting to look like she was interested in getting fitted for a gown or a robe. Hermione was feeling the fabric of the robe that hung on the mannequin, and she was of the belief that she was staring at Narcissa from her peripheral vision. However, in actuality, her head was tilted a bit too much to the side of the shop Narcissa occupied, and her pupils were quite evidently against her person, particularly around her bosom (she was speculating if it had indeed increased).

Narcissa was not fooled by the act. She folded her arms against her breasts in order to hide them, but inadvertently accentuated their fullness. The shadow of her cleavage deepened (and Hermione came to the conclusion that the witch's breasts were indeed larger). " _Ms. Granger?"_ said Narcissa stiffly, having forgotten in her passion and bewilderment that the other woman was now married and her surname had altered.

Hermione could not be bothered to correct her (and truth be told, she was afraid to—and perhaps did not want to). She smiled awkwardly. "Mrs. Malfoy," she began. Her voice was thin and frail. She peeled her gaze away from the blonde's chest and looked at her eyes. _Bad idea._ Narcissa's silver eyes were all-pervading; the hair on Hermione's arms straightened, and she felt the temperature in the room plummet—and somehow, she was still sweating and her hands were clammy despite the sudden cold. She plunged them into the pockets of her sweater, so the witch would not see them quivering. "Umm. I—I saw you outside the store," she quickly pointed to the window and returned her hand just as swiftly to her pocket. "I thought I'd come by and see how—how you were doing," she stammered; her voice was still mousey. _Where is the Gryffindor in you, Hermione?_ She thought to herself. _Merlin's beard. I sound like I'm going to piss in my pants._

Narcissa pursed her lips, but her hostile expression was soon replaced by crumpled brows and lips slightly agape. She appeared dazed. The sight of the other woman coupled with what the tailor had said a moment ago had just now made her lose her equanimity. Her thoughts were in a whirlwind—scattered all over the place. Initially taken aback by what the tailor had said, Narcissa's mind had taken some time to realize the possibility that there was still...

A child.

Hermione's brown eyes had made her recall another set of brown eyes—but these ones were rounder and more juvenile… and oh gods.

Her hand unconsciously reached down to touch her abdomen, but she felt too lightheaded, so she slightly lost her balance. _Merlin_ —her knees felt weak. And the world around her was beginning to blur. Her head felt like cotton. "Oh," she murmured softly, as she took shaky step backwards in an attempt to find the counter situated in the back of the shop, so she could hold onto it and catch her balance—

But it was too late, and she worried the fall was going to be inevitable.

Only, it wasn't.

Somehow, something soft and safe had enfolded her. And she was clinging onto it. They were someone's arms wrapped around her back, and her face was settled limply against their chest. And she could feel hair lightly tickling her cheeks. She could smell sandalwood, jasmines and Moroccan roses… and a hint of something more bitter— wine. The person held onto her firmly, while strength returned to her legs and her vision slowly cleared.

" _Narcis—_ I mean _,_ Mrs. Malfoy?" murmured a voice next to ear.

Slowly, she stirred. Narcissa's long lashes began to flutter open, and she could see warm, honey brown eyes peering down at her with concern. She drowsily looked at the woman's grimace and the small bags under her eyes. The woman looked worn-out, but she was not unsightly—in fact, she was rather pretty. "Are you all right?" the witch asked tentatively.

Still partially captured by unconsciousness, Narcissa could only groan. " _Mhmm_ ," she slurred.

"Mademoiselle!" she heard another voice behind her, and this time, her higher mind suddenly awoke and she was whirled out of her stupor.

She realized the woman holding her was …

 _Granger,_ she thought to herself, but it seemed she had said it aloud as the woman smiled. "It's Weasley now, actually—but you can call me Granger, I guess—or Hermione… if you want to, that is," said Hermione timidly.

At this, Narcissa rolled her eyes. "Preferably, I do not wish to call you anything, as I would rather not know you," she whispered through clenched teeth near her ear, while begrudgingly clasping her shoulders, so she could straighten herself. When she had completely reacquired her composure, she realized Hermione's arms were still bounded around her waist. "You may let go of me now, _Ms. Granger_ " she ordered. Narcissa did not realize her cheeks were slightly flushed.

Hermione also blushed; she hastily unclasped her hands and released her. "Sorry," she mumbled. They both took a few steps back, and turned their gazes away from one another. "Are you alright? I—perhaps you should go to St. Mungo's?" said Hermione after a moment.

"I am fine, Ms. Granger," answered Narcissa. She turned her attention to the frightened tailor inside the shop. "I apologize—"

"No-no! It's alright, madam. In your condition—"

"Yes, I know," answered Narcissa, irate. "In my condition," she whispered under her breath. "Though I cannot wear this gown, I realize… that it may not be your fault. Wait a moment and I'll be back. My pouch is within my robe." Narcissa went into the back of the shop and shortly returned with a pouch and the gown in hand. She was now wearing a tightly fitted coat. Hermione noticed how it was rather snug around her chest. She cleared her throat and smiled awkwardly when Narcissa glanced at her. "I don't seem to have change with me," she muttered. "Bill it to my account?"

The tailor nodded. "Thank you. Take care, Mrs. Malfoy," answered the woman.

When Narcissa turned around to exit the shop, she completely ignored Hermione's presence. She pushed the door open with all her strength, and failed to leave it open long enough for Hermione to pass through, so the door nearly crashed on Hermione's face. The aristocrat was marching haughtily down the street, and Hermione was storming behind her. "Mrs. Malfoy!" she cried. "Please, just wait. Hold on!"

Narcissa continued to walk.

"Listen, I know you hate me— I'm sorry! I wish you wouldn't— because, I think you're a good person! And I—I've seen the love you have for… your son that day."

Narcissa stiffened.

"You were holding your wand, and—"

Narcissa had turned around. Her face was pale. She had stilled, thereby allowing Hermione to have the chance to catch up to her. When Hermione had finally arrived before her, her back was curved and she was holding her knees, panting.

"I was there," breathed Hermione, as she straightened herself. "And I noticed. And I've been having nightmares. I've been terribly afraid that you'd try to…" _kill yourself again._ Hermione's voice trailed off and she gulped. The unuttered words rested heavily on their chests.

Narcissa's lips quivered. Hermione wanted to tell her she had never judged her for what she had been wishing to do that day in the Great Hall. "It was you?" murmured Narcissa. Her eyes had begun to turn starry. Blonde lashes flickered. Hermione felt a knot in her throat, as she stared at stormy grey eyes.

Slowly, Hermione nodded. "Yes, it… it was me. I saw you. I didn't want you to do it."

"Why? You should have let me," whispered Narcissa. The memory sprung to her mind, and she remembered the woman's voice—it had been soft and afraid.

"Because… like I said, you're a good person – Your love for Draco—you see, it's the love you are capable of," Hermione realized she was sounding rather inelegant. "What I mean to say is, I admire you. And," Hermione bit her lips and folded her hands behind herself. She looked at the ground; her gaze had turned evasive. Hesitantly, she continued, " _she's_ lucky to have you as her mother. And I'm glad I'm accidentally sharing her with you," Hermione stammered. "Imagine if it had been someone like Rita Skeeter?"

A pause commenced.

Slowly, Hermione lifted her gaze off the ground, wondering if the other witch had even heard her, as her voice had been but a whisper, and the commotion in Diagon Alley could have stifled it. When she found Narcissa's eyes again, they were not grey. They were blue. And Hermione wondered if it was the light playing tricks, or if her exhaustion was skewing her vision… or if they had somehow softened into a blue as vivid as the Caribbean sea.

"Have you no caution?" hissed Narcissa suddenly. She frantically looked about to see if anyone else had overheard them. When her gaze had resettled on Hermione, her eyes looked silver again, and Hermione wondered if they had ever been blue. _I'm tired_ , she concluded. "Must you scream and talk about _this_ here?" asked the aristocrat. Aghast, Narcissa rubbed her forehead and shook her head. She sighed. "If you are indeed the greatest witch of your generation, then I fear your peers are absolutely feebleminded."

"You're right," answered Hermione. She smirked. _Two can play this game._ "My classmates were imbeciles. But at least they didn't start one of the bloodiest Wizarding war in history."

Narcissa tilted her head to the side, slightly amused by the spine the witch had found. "It takes intelligence to start a war," she argued.

"I disagree," Hermione replied. "It takes idiocy to start it and intelligence to end it."

Hermione watched Narcissa nod slowly. The woman observed her silently with a calculating gaze, as though she could see through every fibre of her being, and Hermione wondered what sort of thoughts were fleeting through her mind. She blushed as she questioned if the woman was peering into her head, as she was a gifted Legilimens and Occulumens. Meanwhile, she had never satisfactorily learned Occulumency, and she feared that the witch might see too much…

Well, it wasn't like she was hiding anything, right? Hermione suddenly frowned.

"I am not reading your mind," said Narcissa acerbically.

Hermione turned beet red. "How did you know?"

"Well," said the witch, "at least not all of it." Narcissa smirked as she neared Hermione face and tilted an elegant brow. "Are _you_ hiding something?"

"Um," Hermione gulped. "Yes, I think I am," she answered.

Narcissa scrunched her brows. The predatory glint returned to her eyes. "Should I be worried, _Granger_?"

It seemed the pureblood could never remember she went by Weasley now. Hermione gulped and whispered, "Yes, you should be."

Narcissa's head remained tilted and her brows were still crunched. "Continue."

Hermione smirked. "I think _I_ would have been the greatest witch of _your_ generation if I had been born then."

At that, Narcissa rolled her eyes and chuckled dryly. She shook her head and manicured finger at her, while smiling too sweetly for it to be true. "You wouldn't have stood a chance." Suddenly, she turned around and clicked her heels arrogantly against the ground. She had begun to walk away.

"That's not fair! At least give me an explanation," shouted Hermione. She was hurriedly trailing her, attempting to match her speed.

"Did Professor McGonagall ever make you her apprentice?" answered Narcissa.

"No," whispered Hermione, as it suddenly occurred to her: _no, it's couldn't be_. "You mean?"

"Yes, I was her apprentice, Granger. And yet, she chose to not make you hers."

Hermione's heart plummeted. All this time, she had thought McGonagall had viewed her as her most talented and favourite student, and yet… "But it hasn't been published anywhere? Why haven't I known about this?!"

"It's prohibited to choose an—"

"An apprentice outside of your house..." Hermione finished for her.

"Precisely."

"How can I believe you?" asked Hermione.

"I don't care if you believe me. And I do not find it necessary to lie to you, Granger. Question her if you must."

Hermione was still behind her, but Narcissa was agile on her feet—Merlin knew how she could be as fast as lightning in heels. Well, her nimbleness would soon decline, thought Hermione—and she wondered how the witch would look heavy with child _…radiant, most likely_. _And what would she need?_ Hermione suddenly began to worry: Narcissa would need to eat well, and not stress, but how could she not feel overwhelmed when her husband did not know? And how would she tell Ron? And how would it all unravel? She frowned as her mind went to darker places.

Oh gods _. Fuck it._ Right now, she was hungry and she would enjoy a good meal. "Are you hungry?" asked Hermione.

"I am _absolutely_ famished," answered Narcissa, while briefly gazing at her. "Why do you suppose I am walking so fast when I feel dreadfully sore? _Merlin_ ," moaned Narcissa. "I sorely miss Apparating."

 _Wait_. Was Narcissa having… pregnancy cravings? Hermione began to giggle, as she realized the possible source for Narcissa's agility. "What are you longing to eat?" asked Hermione.

Narcissa started to bite on her lips, and Hermione had come to know this meant she was uneasy.

"Did I say something?" she asked nervously.

The aristocrat sighed miserably. "I am not certain…," she said with great sorrow, "if I am desiring a Lobster Frittata, huaraches, Italian pizza, souvlaki, chicken biryani, or…" Narcissa paused, and looked pensive, "simply a crepe." Her eyes had twinkled at the end when she had thought of eating a crepe, and Hermione had noticed.

"I think you're craving a crepe," said Hermione.

The aristocrat took in a breath and nodded, having finally arrived at a decision. "I believe we are in one of those rare junctures where you are correct, _Ms._ _Granger_ ," she said sardonically. And Hermione pondered if the witch could not remember that she was now known as Mrs. Weasley or if she was purposely not uttering Ron's surname.

Oh, why did it matter? Hermione realized she did not want to be called Mrs. Weasley, as she did not want to remember Ron right now… and she certainly did not want to recall Lucius Malfoy. "May I call you Narcissa?" whispered Hermione. And she quickly decided it was the most asinine decision of her life. And just when Hermione was expecting her to respond with a " _No"_ , followed by perhaps the deterioration of whatever cordiality they had established, she heard something not quite akin to what she had been expecting.

But it had not been a yes, either.

"Pardon?" asked Hermione, wondering if she had heard her right.

"I said no," answered Narcissa.

"I—I should have never—"

"However, I believe neither of us wish to be reminded of our husbands presently…" Narcissa sighed. "You may call me Ms. Black. I suppose it is only fair."

Well, they weren't necessarily on a first term basis, thought Hermione, and they weren't friends, but—

At least, Narcissa was cordial enough to eat a crepe around her.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Hey guys! I was not able to update this story for some time as I had exams :(. But, in the hopes of having my apology accepted, I have made this chapter longer than my other chapters. Hopefully, the wait was worth it. I decided we needed some fluff and some more Narcissa/Hermione interaction. The whole fiasco with Lucius and Ron will happen ... but not yet. I want these two to first have the time to get to know each other a little bit more before that occurs.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Your thoughts and comments are most appreciated! Hope you're all enjoying your summer (or winter - or is it fall? - in Australia) :)


	9. Chapter 8: Word Games

**Chapter 8: Word Games**

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 _"I could deny it if I liked._

 _I could deny anything if I liked."_

 _~ Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest._

* * *

"There are no universals," argued Narcissa.

"I disagree – that's a logical fallacy: the statement itself—"

"— is attempting to be a universal? It contradicts itself. I am aware of that, Ms. Granger," Narcissa interrupted. "But I am not concerned with semantics or word games— look at the world: where can you find absolutes, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione frowned. They had curiously come to discuss philosophy, and it appeared that Narcissa and her were on opposing sides: Narcissa was the Nihilist, and Hermione, the Platonist. It had started with a taunt from the aristocrat: Hermione had turned contrary when a male passerby (deranged, most assuredly) had given Narcissa a look of contempt. "Yeh bitch!" the male had shouted from across the cobbled street of Diagon Alley. "Should've been sent to Azkaban!"

Hermione had nearly stormed towards him, but Narcissa's voice had restrained her. "Don't, Ms. Granger." Hermione had gazed back, and had found Narcissa's elegant brow raised at her. Her lips had been slightly upturned. She wondered if she had been amused by her rage. "Do refrain from being a brash Gryffindor – I have had a long day, and would like to have the rest conflict free – if your disposition is so willing."

" _Brash_ Gryffindor?" Hermione had then asked incredulously, while returning to the witch's side. "If it weren't for us Gryffindors, the war would have never been won, Ms. Black."

"In wars, there is only loss," Narcissa had retorted.

Hermione had pursed her lips. There had been truth in her words, but she had not wanted to believe them. The war had been fought for a reason – so that goodness would win. There was loss (Fred, Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, and countless others)... but it had been necessary. "I – I disagree, Ms. Black. There will always be war. It is human nature, after all – but when there is war, one must hope that goodness prevails."

"Goodness?" Narcissa chuckled dryly. "Goodness is relative, Ms. Granger. Would you say that Dumbledore was good?"

"Yes. Of course. Without question."

"He was willing to kill your friend, Mr. Potter, for goodness. He had raised him for this purpose. Dumbledore had ensured Mr. Potter would grow to be lacking in self-esteem by permitting Muggles of the worst kind to raise him. By doing so, he guaranteed Mr. Potter's complete and utter loyalty. He was to be slaughtered – do you think there was goodness in Dumbledore's ways, Ms. Granger? How was his method any different than what Voldemort had wished to put my son through?"

Hermione had remained silent until they had entered the cafe – and not out of choice. She had had trouble finding an apt response. She had never considered such a perspective, such a cynical view of matters. Had Harry simply been Dumbledore's tool in the war? But it had been necessary, yes – of course. A necessary evil for the greater good.

"There are no universals," Narcissa had then said. And this was how they had arrived at the current point in time.

They were now seated and their orders had come. Narcissa seemed to be quite the aficionado of chocolate. Hermione silently watched her lick the dark, saccharine liquid off her lips, and inadvertently her crimson lip stick, as well; the woman's lips were not a deep red in reality, but they were a softer colour, the self-same pigment of a Melrose.

"You never answered, Ms. Granger," said Narcissa.

"Um," whispered Hermione inelegantly. She then sipped on her glass of wine, while staring about at the busy and bustling streets of Diagon Alley. They were sitting in the patio of the café. The sun was shimmering against their surroundings. Leaves were turning various shades of red and orange. The air was crisp and fresh. Autumn was at its height, and she was sitting with none other than Narcissa, dumbfounded within a discussion of … philosophy.

The world was a curious place, indeed.

Hermione sighed, and at last answered Narcissa, albeit timidly, "It was for the greater good, Ms. Black."

Narcissa shook her head in a faux show of disappointment. "The greater good..." she whispered under her breath, "... is a myth, Ms. Granger. Allow me to illustrate?"

"Of course."

"Would you push an elderly woman aside on a sidewalk if there were others behind you who were becoming agitated by her slow gait?"

Hermione once more replied with silence.

"You see, Ms. Granger – the greater good is used by those in power to explain the loss of victims – to render them into _necessary costs_. Morality is always used for ... one's own goals, whatever they may be. We are all hedonists, Ms. Granger – _even you."_

"That's not true," Hermione replied. _And you're a liar._ She wished to tell the witch she was being absolutely mendacious – that she was not a Nihilist. If anything, she was most likely a misanthrope – the classic case of an idealist who had seen far too much horror to still look at life through rose glass windows (but yearned to look at life through them once more… if given the chance...). And Hermione supposed she knew this, as she knew Draco had been nothing like his father – he had had his mother's depth, but Narcissa was in denial – she could not see that she was of the same substance as her late son. _But why can I? How can I know you if I've just met you? Do I know you? Oh, quit it Hermione! Why does it matter if she chooses to be a goddamn Nihilist?_ But Hermione cared – she cared enough to show Narcissa that ideals were real: there was beauty, love and goodness—there were perfections _(and she was one of them)._ "So many have sacrificed themselves for altruistic reasons – for reasons that have brought them much displeasure, Ms. Black," answered Hermione. "I refuse to believe that we are just mindless creatures — slaves to our desires."

"Your refusal does not alter reality, Ms. Granger," Narcissa contended. "Besides, you did not answer all of my questions: Are there any absolutes in this world, Ms. Granger?" Narcissa was holding Hermione's gaze with her wolf-like eyes. Hermione observed them, the dark rims surroundings the silver, the long lashes against soft, alabaster skin, and hair, soft as silk and nearly as pale as moonlight.

Merlin's beard.

Hermione sighed, as she finished chewing on her sandwich _. You – you are an absolute. An ideal. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't exist. How can someone as bloody perfect as you... be real?_ "I don't know," she grumbled, as she wondered if she was envious of the witch's appearance or ... if perhaps ( _no, that's absolutely ridiculous_ , she chided herself).

"I thought you were the brightest witch of your generation, Ms. Granger," said Narcissa in her rich, magnetic voice. "I find myself disappointed. I had been anticipating... a more interesting response... from someone of your _calibre_." She then gracefully put down her knife and fork against her plate before patting her mouth with a napkin, and removing a lipstick and a small mirror from the little pouch she stored in her coat. Her lips were skilfully stained the color of red wine again.

Wine. Speaking of wine, Hermione wanted another glass. This would then be her fourth (or was it fifth?) glass today. She had drunk to calm her nerves in the morning when she was about to go and meet Narcissa, and now she was drinking again... and Hermione wondered if her inability to properly debate with Narcissa (and the strange thoughts swirling through her mind) had been the culmination of her somewhat inebriated state. She downed the remaining portion in her glass, and was about to call the waiter for another – she was about to raise her hand off the table, when a warm hand fell against it:

And she slowly lifted her eyes and met ones gray like the sky on a stormy day. "Ms. Granger. I suggest you refrain from having another glass." Narcissa gently removed her hand (and Hermione lowered the same hand under the table, settling it into the pocket of her sweater – too afraid to have it feel the cold again so soon). "If I were in your position," Narcissa looked hesitant, "I would perhaps resort to quelling ... my troubles in the same manner..." Her words trailed off. "But I cannot be in your position… So, I have the outsider's perspective, gratefully—though forcibly." Suddenly, Narcissa cut to the chase and asked, "You are a brazen Gryffindor, are you not?"

Hermione would have smiled but she was too startled by the change in the aristocrat's usual behavior to respond in a socially acceptable way. Instead, she simply gawked at Narcissa as though she were a thestral, and gulped.

Narcissa smirked, cognizant of the best manner in which she could bring the witch out of her inertness: "Oh my… or did you _plead_ to the sorting hat to place you in Gryffindor?" She lifted a brow.

At this, Hermione quickly gnarled: _"_ _I did not plead."_

"Hmm," Narcissa shrugged. "Very well, if you say so," she answered coolly.

Narcissa then paid for the bill, much to Hermione's chagrin. "I can pay for my own bill," Hermione argued.

"I know, but it's no secret that I am more… affluent than you," Narcissa replied. "Keep those galleons for a… haircut, perhaps?" Narcissa smirked. "A much needed one," she added.

Hermione grimaced, suddenly self-conscious of her hair. "You're impossible."

"Then let us not meet again if I am so impossible? I would be grateful if we were to not cross paths again…"

Hermione sighed. "That's also… impossible."

Narcissa sighed this time. She intertwined her fingers and placed them on the wooden table between them. She had suddenly turned pensive. "Do you want it… to be impossible?" she whispered. "It can be… possible, Ms. Granger." Her voice had sounded small and out of character.

Hermione could not understand the equivocations. "What do you mean, Ms. Black?" she asked.

Narcissa looked up. All color had left her face. "What I mean is… You do not have to be in this child's life. Your presence is not necessary – "she said with restrained tones, "— I have the ability to raise her on my own – I do not mean to be ostentatious, but I am quite well-off, financially. I do not need your assistance… if you have gotten that impression, then you have been misguided." Her lips pursed. "I do not need your pity—"

"That was never my intention!" Hermione exclaimed. "I—I don't pity you," she said.

"Then, what?" Her eyes turned piercing. "You truly _care_ for me? You do not even know who I am. You know nothing of my past. Please, Mrs. Weasley. I know better than that. You've pitied me ever since… that day in the Great Hall, I suppose." She smiled sadly: " _Oh, look:_ It's Mrs. Malfoy, the miserable wench who tried to kill herself."

"That's not how I see you – Mrs. Malfoy," said Hermione. And now Narcissa was Mrs. Malfoy again. And she was Mrs. Weasley. They were acquiescent to their roles once more—their allotments in life. "Mrs. Malfoy, do you think that… I pity you?"

 _Do I?_

Narcissa turned her face away. "Your regard of me is of no importance to me. If you pity me, don't. I do not need it." She rose from her seat and shot more daggers at Hermione. "Frankly, I do not want you in this child's life, Mrs. Weasley—I do not think I can tolerate your presence. And I am positive that you hold the same sentiment towards me—and that you would rather not be in this position—" Narcissa's lips quivered. "And you do not have to be."

 _Oh gods. You stupid, foolish woman._ "Mrs. Malfoy. Really? I do not have the ability to choose which position I would rather be in life right now!"

"Precisely my point! If you had the choice, you would not be in this predicament, would you?" said Narcissa.

Word games. "Well, of course not! Would you—"

"Precisely my point..." she whispered this time. "You would rather not be in it." She took in a deep breath and attempted to compose herself, but she still appeared on edge, "Well. You shan't feel the need to mention any of this to your dearest husband," said Narcissa. "As for my husband, well – I'll figure that out for myself." She brusquely nodded her head.

"Mrs. Malfoy, please let me exp—"

"Goodbye, then," Narcissa interrupted. She turned around. Her heels clicked and clacked furiously– the familiar sound of her footsteps, an arrogant melody Hermione had become accustomed to … and terribly peeved by presently.

Merlin's bloody beard! Hermione rubbed her forehead and huffed.

Narcissa was impossible.

But was she right? Did she pity her?

And was it true—did she truly wish to be in this child's life? Was there a hesitance within her that the other woman could sense? Hermione groaned miserably. It was Ron. Fucking Ron. How could she tell him and break his heart?

She gazed at the waiter who was serving other customers within the interior of the café.

"A glass of wine," she said to him when she had caught his notice.

 _Because no, Narcissa. I'm not a brazen Gryffindor. I'm a bloody coward._

* * *

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Your constructive criticism is much appreciated, as always. Please tell me if you think I'm treading on the right path - or the wrong path, and how I can go about changing my track (if that's possible and this isn't absolute garbage!)

Anyhow, your comments are much appreciated! Thank you so much for your positive reviews and remarks. For all the Guest Reviewers: I usually PM non-anon accounts back, but since I can't give you a more personal thank you, I hope this is sufficient - THANK YOU SO MUCH! :)


	10. Chapter 9: Suffocating Cowardice

**Chapter 9: Suffocating Cowardice**

* * *

 _"I'd suffocate. From my own cowardice."_

 _~ Julia Glass, And the Dark Sacred Night_

* * *

Every day felt weaved together; differentiating between them had become an arduous task, for each day now seemed relatively the same: long, wearisome and perpetual. Hermione was in a sort of limbo; she had been flung into the netherworld, where mortals suffer eternally.

Initially, she had engulfed herself in her work, wishing it would somehow preoccupy her mind long enough to forget. Only, she had never forgotten. She was cheating herself, and the worst part of it all was that she knew she was cheating herself. Her intellect had refused to allow her to succumb to delusion. Hermione frowned, as a familiar thought arose in her mind: she wondered if her intelligence was her damnation.

Presently, she was seated in her office, blue and weary, and obscured by the mountain of files and documents on her desk. Her head and arms were lethargically placed against the surface of her desk; she was listening, unaware of precisely what she listening for: perhaps, she was trying to listen to her contradictory heart, her tyrannical mind, or simply... nothing. The grandfather clock ticked rhythmically, serving as a constant reminder of time slipping from her grasp. She would have to make a choice soon, but indecision had possessed her.

 _Tell Ron_ , said her heart. _Don't lie to yourself. You want to be in the child's life. You want to see her grow. You want to love her. And you know you're not a coward. Goddamn it, Hermione! You were one of the driving forces behind Voldemort's demise._

 _Don't tell him_ , said her heart. _Your presence in the child's life is unnecessary. Narcissa said so herself. And you are a coward, Hermione. Why else would you fear telling Ron? Don't you realize that if your daughter were to know you she would be disappointed by you?_

 _You are being a fool. You're still the stupid girl you were, Hermione,_ said her mind. _You can't hide it forever. Stop thinking with your heart and start thinking with your brain! Imagine Ron finds out later on. He will certainly leave you then ... and then you'll have absolutely nothing._

 _But Narcissa promised she wouldn't tell anyone,_ answered the darker side of her heart. _No one will know._

"But I will," whispered Hermione.

She pursed her lips.

Nothing answered too: the silence was heavy and full of judgement.

She could move on (could she move on?) without telling anyone of what had occurred. Ron would then never know, and if he never knew, then he wouldn't leave... (or had their marriage reached a point where its destruction was inevitable?).

Narcissa had given her the choice to be free. But was there freedom in this choice? (Or was she simply afraid of the choice that would truly grant her freedom? How odd is it, thought Hermione, that sometimes one is most afraid of their liberation... _Only cowards are afraid of being free.._. )

She crumpled a blank piece of paper and threw it into the dust bin. Damn that witch, she then thought, for tempting her with a choice she hadn't previously considered. Damn her vixen ways. Damn her for making her question her intentions ( _and damn her... for being... so terribly complicated and complex and for bloody... well, being_ , Hermione stammered mentally).

She thought of her silver eyes ( _damn them too_ ): sharp and piercing like scimitars, like iron gates unwilling to let intruders in, and unwilling to let anything out. What was it that Narcissa kept shrouded behind those eyes? Was it pain and sorrow? How deep did it go?

When Hermione had first laid her eyes on the witch, it was during the Quidditch World cup. She had watched her from her place; the Slytherin was sitting in Fudge's luxury box like a queen. She had been wearing a dark, emerald frock. Her bare, long, and slender legs had been crossed. Her thick and soft hair had fallen in loose waves around her delicate neck. She had looked rather disinterested in the game. Her expression had remained vacant even when the team her family had supported had scored.

Hermione had wondered if she was a Veela, as she was ethereally fair, and incredibly beautiful. She had thought she would shapeshift and show her monstrous side like the other Veelas at the game, as Narcissa's beauty was such that it would've had to been marred in some way. It could not have been real, for how could a mere human, a mere mortal be the personification of perfection?

And so, she had watched Narcissa instead of the game. And not once had her appearance altered like a Veela. Hermione had been forced to conclude the witch was entirely human. Yet, how was it that she held such supernatural beauty? How was it that she was a mortal with the beauty of the immortals? (And this was when Hermione had truly begun to believe in ideals).

Hermione would have never watched the game of 1994's Quidditch World Cup if Narcissa hadn't felt her stare, as at one point during the game, her silver eyes had caught her brown, and Hermione had blushed and quickly glanced the other way. Narcissa's grey eyes had been etched into memory: they were frigid and icy like the waters of antarctica. She had thought Narcissa was beautiful like a gelid day in winter; and this was how she had subconsciously entitled her as Narcissa, the Ice Queen.

But, during the day in which Narcissa had fallen to the ground, and clutched her son to her chest, Hermione had realized Narcissa was not an Ice Queen. Instead, Hermione had realized she was like the goddess Persephone, who had been forced to endure a life in the underworld. She was not made of ice— no, she was like still water: Endless, dark and deep—full of mysteries and enigmas. After the battle, Hermione's curiosity had been even further piqued. Her intellect had been bewitched, as the woman had become a pandora's box.

(And she desired to open her).

Now, she pondered: How was it that Narcissa had known her fears? Did she carry a keen intuition… or had she used legilimency? If the latter was the case, it wasn't fair how Narcissa was able to peer into her mind. Hermione felt violated (felt angered that she had never learned Legilimency— that she was unable to dig into the other woman's mind, to discover her inner landscape). And, if Narcissa had used legilimency, had she found… perhaps other things?

Hermione blushed. She told herself she had nothing to hide from Narcissa other than her indecision and cowardice (and Hermione's obstinate intellect questioned her conclusion: _Don't lie,_ it whispered). And when she thought her notion had become rooted (it hadn't), the door to her office suddenly sprung open.

It was Harry. He had stormed in. His hands were placed against his knees, and his back was arched. He was perspiring and utterly unsettled.

"Hermione," he panted between breaths.

Hermione, however, did not respond. She was completely icebound. What was it that had rattled him so? She feared the worst.

"Ginny — Ginny is having the baby!" he answered.

She let out a gasp, "Oh—." Ginny was having the baby. Hermione's eyes expanded once she had mentally repeated what Harry had said. Ginny was nearing her ninth term, and they had all been waiting for this to happen at any moment...

And it was happening. Right now.

"Merlin's bloody beard! _Right now?"_

"Yes," he yelled. "Now!"

"Oh shit- _shit_." Hermione rose from her seat and put her coat around herself. "Let's go, then!"

* * *

Black Manor loomed before Narcissa. It had seemed so large when she had been a little girl, but now Narcissa realized that Black Manor was not especially large or small for a manor. To a keen eye, the averageness of its dimensions would have been quite evident, but to the unsuspecting eye, the estate was large and gigantic, as its intimidating character made it appear rather enormous.

The finest materials had been used to craft it. Each stone in the manor had been placed there by hand. The ceilings were lined with pure gold trimmings. It was adorned by dark Italian marble, and there were formidable gargoyles placed at the gated entrance and atop the roof.

This had been her home before she had been married to Lucius. This had been the home of the Blacks for centuries.

And now it was hers again.

Unfortunate events had brought it under her ownership. If the events had transpired in a manner to the liking of the elders of the Black household, the manor would have been under the ownership of a Black male. But Sirius had been disowned. His brother had perished. And Bellatrix had died. And Andromeda, too, had been disowned. One by one, every Black that had been older than her had fallen like leaves of a tree in autumn.

And so, the manor had fallen to her, the youngest child. She was the only remaining leaf. And ironically, she had been the child whose fortune was said would only be made through marriage, through being sold.

And yet, all of this was hers. Narcissa smirked sadly and with resentment.

Her mother and father (particularly her father) would have hated to know she had been the inheritor, for she was a woman. And in their eyes, she was not even the sort of woman who could rival a man: as a child, she would often cry at the silliest things, and was accused of being far too sensitive. Narcissa had been nothing at all like Bellatrix, who had constantly made it her mission to prove that she was no less than a man. As such, Narcissa's father had never suspected that his youngest daughter would inherit the manor— for, her curse was that she was born a girl, and that too, a beautiful one. Accordingly, she had been forced to acquire an excellent dowry by marrying the most suitable and wealthiest pureblood boy. To be a pretty pureblood wife to an affluent pureblood man had been decided for her long before she had even been of age. And when she had been married off to Lucius, in her parents' eyes, the life they had given her was not terrible— to them, making more heirs and expanding the pureblood line was a most respectable life for a pureblood girl.

One day, her father had been punishing a house elf with a Cruciatus Curse. "Stop it Papa!" she had shouted at him. "Why must you torture him?!"

"Quiet!" her father had bellowed. He had then taken his leather belt and whipped her back with it. "It's her Rosier blood," he had told his wife later that night. Her mother had been quietly offended and the next morning she had scolded Narcissa in secrecy. "Don't you ever talk back to your father. Do you hear me girl?" Narcissa had been about to nod, but she had been interrupted by a sharp slap to the cheek; she had quickly come to realize that being outspoken was not appreciated in her household.

Narcissa had cried to her eldest sister that night: "Bella, am I not a good Black?" During her formative years, she had despised her appearance: she had a Rosier's colouring. Her hair was far too fair and soft; it was not dark, wild and stubborn like a Black's, and her eyes were not like their obsidian gems.

Bella had chuckled heartily, a chuckle only Sirius could rival, while rubbing Narcissa's injured back with a soothing balm. "No. You are not even a good Rosier. You cry when Papa yells at the house elves. It isn't the pureblood way." She had shaken her head and tsked, "Oh, you pea-brained girl," while Narcissa had continued to sniffle. "When you were born, I vowed I would protect you. But you make it very hard for me to live up to my vow."

Narcissa's sniffles had become louder. "I'm _not_ pea-brained."

" _Ferme ta bouche_. I don't want you to be hurt again. Now remember. _Écoute moi ma petite_ : neither a Rosier or a Black would cry if they saw a _stupid_ house elf Crucio'd... only a mudblood would."

"I'm _not_ a mudblood!" Narcissa had retorted. At seven, she hadn't really known what they were, but she had known the word was used only out of spite.

"Yes, I know, _silly_ ," Bella had cooed. " _Ugh_... just try not to cry in front of Maman and Papa again. Alright? And remember to use the soothing balm every night."

Narcissa had briskly nodded while tears had continued to dribble down her cheeks. She had thought her sister had left, but then Bellatrix had walked back, and had kissed her forehead. "You'll be a Black, Cissy." She had sighed next to her ear. "I'll make sure of it… I will always be here for you."

And Bellatrix had lived up to her promise. Andromeda had left her alone, but Bellatrix had stayed, and despite her wrongdoings, she had tried to ensure her son's safety by forcing Snape to take the Unbreakable Vow. Bellatrix had ensured she'd become a proper Black, as well. She had informed Papa and Maman that Lucius was indeed a most suitable match. And so, she had been married off against her will, and had been thrown into the cool waters of apathy. Finally, she had learned the art of indifference, the art of being a Black.

But, though her choices had been made for her, as per the law of cause and effect, it seemed fate had not paid mind to the preferences of the elders in her family. Narcissa had never been their choice. But now, the universe had spoken: and its choice had been her all along.

The iron gates opened for Narcissa. And so, she stepped into her first home, the home that had tossed her out.

"Hello again," she said, as she marched forward with two suitcases hovering behind her, onto the stone path that led to the large, unwelcoming front doors. A doleful but sardonic smile frolicked across her fine features. "Did you think you could get rid of me with such ease?" she said acerbically. "To my regret, and I assume yours as well, I am a Black. I am obstinate," Narcissa thought of Sirius and Bellatrix, "...until the very end." Her father had been wrong; she could have never been anything but a Black, for his blood was overpowering. It marred and tainted everything it touched. Its darkness was all consuming. Its vigorous power was possessive. Every child of his had been trifled by it.

The wind on the estate suddenly made a shrill noise, and the trees swayed. It was as though the manor was reawakening from a deep slumber. The air was imbued with magic. It was a different sort of magic. It was often said that during the crafting of the manor, ancient magic had been used to ensure that it would have a subtle sentience, so that it would be able to defend itself if the need ever arose. Narcissa did not know if there was truth to the lore; nevertheless, she had always felt that the manor had some sort of energy... it was stubborn and obstinate like a Black.

Suddenly, a tree limb swatted her back. Narcissa turned around and furrowed her pale brows. She pointed her wand at the tree. "Don't you dare," she hissed. "Or I shall kill you with fiendfyre." The tree was still, as though it had never moved.

Perhaps, it hadn't. The manor delighted in gaslighting.

Narcissa then wondered if it had been Black Manor that had driven nearly every Black mad or if the madness of the Blacks had been absorbed by their dwelling.

If the former was true— how pathetic and comical would that be, she then thought to herself, as she started to walk to the front of the manor once more.

When she had stood before the entrance, she knocked upon one of the large, oak doors with a handle that was shaped like a snake eating its tail. She then waited for a moment. Her heart thudded against her chest. For two years, ever since the last war and thus the day she had inherited the manor, Narcissa had never come to see it, as she had not wanted to relive memories of her childhood; she had not wanted to see how the past had led to her present circumstances.

The doors soon creaked open, and dust instantly blew out from the innards of the manor. Narcissa was forced to cough. When her coughing had subsided, she stepped in and she heard the doors close behind her.

"Well. Well. _Cela fait un bail._ Look who's here," said an older woman condescendingly. Her English accent was touched by French. Narcissa furrowed her brows, and turned her attention to where the voice had ushered from; and there, she found the portrait of her mother. Her fair hair was coiled into an intricate bun, and her grey eyes were bitter. Next to her portrait was her father's portrait. His dark eyes were intently settled against her person.

Narcissa could feel her inner child's fright. Her lips quivered and she almost bowed her head until her higher mind made her recall that these were merely their portraits.

Her mother's portrait continued: "What are you doing here? Where is Bellatrix? Why has she not come to see me?"

" _Elle est morte,_ " Narcissa said frigidly while slowly turning towards the spiral staircases in the foyer.

"Dead?" whispered her mother in disbelief.

"Dead?" Her father's portrait echoed. "YOU LIE!" he then bellowed.

As she marched up the stairs, she halted before her father's portrait. "Yes, Papa. She was killed by Molly Weasley."

" _A WEASLEY?_!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. A Weasley. I must regrettably inform you that she could not rid the whole world of mudbloods before her demise," continued Narcissa acerbically. "Times have changed. Volde-"

"How dare you speak his name!"

Narcissa remained composed. " _Voldemort_ has not won. And I will be having a daughter," she announced. "She will be a half-blood like your Dark Lord."

"See, he was a half-blood, Cygnus. I told you so!" said his wife.

"Quiet, woman," said Cygnus. His dark eyes had darkened even more. They had begun to look crazed. "You are a stain upon our family," he then said to Narcissa. "I should have killed you when you came out of your mother's womb."

At this, Narcissa chuckled dryly. "The Black family is nearly extinct, Papa. Upon my divorce, I will be the only person who will carry the family name."

"YOU HARLOT!" her mother had meanwhile shrieked. Her mother's portrait had now began to sob: " _Oh mon dieu_!" she cried hysterically. "My Bella is dead while you and Andromeda live!" She sniffled. "This world is terribly unfair… I pray this revolting _half-breed_ you're carrying dies before it sees daylight!"

Narcissa remained unruffled. " _Maman, b_ _rûle en enfer._ My daughter will be as magical as any pureblood. And she will be cleverer than most. She will be treated with your utmost respect. She will not be ridiculed."

Her father began to chuckle darkly. "And why shall I heed to your orders?"

"Because I will otherwise be forced to silence the both of you with a charm before putting you in a box, wherein you will be imprisoned until the end of time," answered Narcissa flatly before turning away from them, and recommencing her march up the stairs.

"You bitch!" hollered her mother.

"I have learned from the best, Maman,'" Narcissa replied while smiling frostily. She paused for effect when she had reached the top of the stairs. "Now, listen carefully," she then said slowly, "I am simply _yearning_ to confine you in a box. For, due to people like you and Papa, my son has died. And my cousins - And even Bellatrix, who I vehemently hated and loved with every fibre of my being, died ultimately because of you two. If she had not been forced to prove her worth to you, she would still be alive, and my niece and cousin would be here — and all those innocent lives would have not been lost!" Narcissa caught her breath and tried to calm herself. "But, I am attempting to be civilized," she whispered after a moment. "Though, it is very hard to be civilized with savages like you," she confessed. "So, you see, I have given the both of you a chance. Do not test my patience."

This time her mother's portrait did not respond. Narcissa smirked triumphantly. "And oh yes — I shall be moving the both of you to a chamber that will be seldom used. I cannot have you two in the foyer. You are not … a very welcoming sight. Nevertheless, as I am not a brute, I'll ensure you have a window through which you can view the gardens."

Her parents did not respond; her father remained mute while her mother sniffled. Narcissa released a relieved sigh and headed towards the chamber that used to belong to her.

When she had entered it, she closed the door, leaned against it and sealed her eyes shut, while her luggage slowly flew to the opulent bed in the chamber and fell there. "Why could I have not found my spine decades earlier?" she whispered to herself. _Because you are a coward._ Her thought made her think of a muggleborn woman with hair as feral as a Black's. Narcissa had used an old Slytherin tactic: call a Gryffindor a coward, and they will wonder if they are one. In truth, she knew the witch was not a coward; she feared the day Hermione would come to realize this (Narcissa's fear had many layers. She had lied to Hermione about how deeply she had peered into her mind; Narcissa had crossed boundaries and entered territories where some of the witch's most intimate secrets were enshrouded. There, she had been rendered thunderstruck by the longing, passion and the inception of devotion she had unearthed; for, she had seen soft skin under softer bed sheets, wet lips and wetter ones… the primal orchestra of syncing heartbeats and fervent whimpers. With haste, Narcissa had retreated from Hermione's mind. And, much to her exasperation and ire, she had been left ... wanton, and breathless for Hermione's hungry gaze; it was this that she feared and denied most of all).

A moment passed by before she reopened her eyes. They were twinkling. Thinking of the witch had made Narcissa recall something beautiful. Her slender, long hand fell against her abdomen, against a small bulge that could not be seen, but could be felt. She stroked the swelling with her thumb, and answered the question she had asked herself earlier: "But then, I wouldn't have had you..." she whispered softly.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I apologize for the slow update! I am taking summer courses at university, and they are very fast paced, so updates might be on the slower end until September. However, I do hope to update every two weeks.

Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Narcissa has left Lucius (more info on how that happened will be given later) and Harry is having his first baby. This was actually supposed to be only half of the chapter, but I don't know when I'll get the other half done, so I decided to post this for now, since I haven't updated this story in roughly a month.

As always, your thoughts are welcomed. Thank you so much for reading this fic and for leaving lovely reviews. Knowing that this story brings some sort of joy to your life always makes me smile! :)


	11. Chapter 10: Kairos

**Chapter 10: Kairos**

* * *

 _"What's life without a little risk?_ _"_

 _~ Sirius Black_

* * *

The wind was shrill and haunting. It bellowed viciously, while the limbs of the trees trembled and broke. The animals sought shelter. It was not a quiet, peaceful night. The sounds of crickets or owls could not be heard. Earth was in its primordial form. Mother nature was not pleased. Rain was pattering against the window. Thunder boomed. Lightning struck.

Andromeda was reminded of nights she would have rather not remembered. Like the animals, she too had sought shelter: she sat on a sofa before the hearth in her home, where the fire danced and twirled. In her hands, she held a book, but she could not bring herself to read (truth be told, she had never had an appetite for books... it was her younger sister, Narcissa, who had been the bibliophile; nevertheless, at such an ungodly hour in the night, there was not much to do).

There was an odd, peculiar feeling in her heart. The feeling was almost inexorable to describe. It was the sort of feeling one got when they were on the edge of of a cliff, or on the edge of a mountain. It was that feeling one got when something great and unexpected was about to happen. Andromeda recalled how the Ancient Greeks had a name for it: they called it kairos.

Suddenly, she heard a knock. Andromeda seized her wand and rose from her seat. Wars had made her oversuspicious. "Who's there?" she asked. The knocking continued. As she ventured forth, towards the front door, she heard a woman's voice ushering from behind it.

"'Meda," it said.

It had sounded familiar. Andromeda unlocked the door and when it opened, she saw a trembling Hermione soaked from the rain. Her arms were enfolded and held tightly against her chest. Her teeth were chattering. "Hermione?" she said in disbelief. " _Merlin!_ Why — you could have just Apparated! "

She was interrupted by Hermione's sniffles. She could not tell whether she was sniffling from the cold or whether she was crying. The droplets of water trickling down her cheeks could have been tears or rain drops. Andromeda quickly pointed her wand at the younger woman, and dried her with a charm. "Come!" she ordered. She pulled her towards the fireplace, and made sure she was sitting near it before bringing a blanket and wrapping it around her.

"Hermione?" she then whispered in a tone that pleaded for Hermione to disclose whatever had made her terribly distraught. She sat by her side and held her cold hand, waiting patiently for her to speak.

A few moments passed by in this manner. Finally, Hermione found the courage to speak. "I think—" began Hermione before she was interrupted by her own hiccup, "—I think..." she paused. Her face blanched. Her lips were slightly moving, trembling, and unsure of themselves; it was as though they were attempting to say words that seemed foreign.

"I think I left Ron," she finally blurted.

"Oh dear," murmured Andromeda, whilst patting the younger witch's hand. "We'll need some wine."

* * *

The day before, Hermione could not feel her hand. Ginny had tightly wounded her sweat-laden hand around Hermione's, constricting all blood flow. The room was heavy with nervous excitement, and the eagerness to meet the new life that was to soon enchant them. On Ginny's other side, stood Harry, whose hand was grasped just as firmly. Near Ginny's feet, Mrs. Weasley sat on a chair, while the Mediwizard stood before her. They were inside 12 Grimmauld Place, as Ginny had felt she would be more comfortable giving birth at home than in a cold, clinical setting.

"One more push, love," said Mrs. Weasley, impatient to meet her grandchild.

Hermione winced as the hold Ginny had on her hand tightened.

And then Ginny growled. Hermione feared she would pass out from the exertion when suddenly the cry of an infant filled the room. Ginny's hand fell away from hers, while Hermione stared at the infant writhing in the Mediwizard's arms. Mrs. Weasley was crying tears of joy, while Harry and Ginny were completely taken aback by the life they had formed together, by this miracle that was still somehow a miracle despite occurring all the time.

Hermione took in a shaky breath. The child was beautiful. The crying infant was laid upon his mother's chest, and his cries softened while being held in her arms. Hermione was utterly entranced by the bond between the mother and child. She hadn't known the miracle of birth was this extraordinary, this bizarre and full of wonder.

Harry was crouched beside his wife; he pulled back her hair and wiped her clammy forehead with a tissue. A proud smile has spread across his face. "I love you," he whispered to his wife and child. His emerald eyes were twinkling, their green has become greener. And as for Ginny, although utterly exhausted, her eyes were luminous and wet. She was in awe of the life she had made with Harry.

The Mediwizard came again, this time with a small blanket. He took the child, and Ginny's gaze suddenly turned fearful. "He'll be okay," he told the new, anxious mother. "I'm merely testing his blood for any deficiencies. It won't hurt too much. The little one won't remember it."

Hermione smiled shyly at the couple before her. "He's beautiful," she whispered to Ginny and Harry, while they all waited impatiently for the Mediwizard to return the child to them.

When the child was given back to Ginny, he was wrapped in a soft, blue blanket. "The potion remained clear. Everything seems perfect," said the Mediwizard. At this, Ginny and Harry let out a relieved sigh.

The infant was inspecting everyone with astonished eyes. He seemed just as startled as everyone in the room. They were all mesmerized by him. He was passed around from arm to arm, and soon Hermione found herself holding the little bundle. He was soft and so small, so vulnerable, so in need of being loved. She held him tightly. "Hello there," she murmured. "I'm your aunt, Hermione." And then she thought of another child, of a little girl who was waiting to be born... _Will she have Narcissa's perfect nose?_ she wondered. _Her perfectly shaped lips?_ she thought. _Will her eyes be Narcissa's pale blue?_

That night, Hermione dreamt of holding to her chest a little baby with flaxen hair, Narcissa's perfect nose and lips, and pale blue eyes. And suddenly, she knew she had wanted to hold her ever since a certain day in St. Mungo's.

When Hermione woke from her dream the next morning, she thought it was like any other morning. Outside, the birds were singing their songs. It was relatively warm for early winter. The sun was bright and its rays were flowing in through the windows, illuminating the small kitchen that was separated from the living room by a half wall. Hermione and Ron were seated here by a dinner table.

As always, like every morning, Ron had been reading the sports section in _The Daily Prophet_. After breakfast, they would usually leave together for work at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Once, he would kiss her before she would go to her office, but now a kiss was seldom given. And if she received one, it often left her rather unmoved (Hermione questioned if they would ever leave together for anywhere again; if he would ever kiss her again. And would she miss him ... if he were to go?).

"Ron, I ... I have to tell you something," whispered Hermione tentatively. She was sitting on the other side of the dinner table (when had they stopped sitting together? she wondered).

His blue eyes wandered away lazily from his newspaper to her. They were always the same tint of blue— an unexpressive, unchanging blue. They were a great deal unlike Narcissa's eyes, thought Hermione: the blonde's penetrative, bedroom eyes were sometimes still and cold, shimmering like silvery frost; but, they could also be ferociously blue, suddenly impassioned like the raging sea; and then, there were those rare moments where her daggers turned into the soft, cerulean blue of the heavens.

"What is it, 'Mione?" slurred Ron, as he gulped down his coffee.

She told him.

As she spoke, his cheeks began to redden, he started to lower his head and rub his forehead. He made long, heavy huffs. His fingers were soon curled into tight fists that were placed against the dinner table. Her words had been like a red rag to a bull. Time had slowed. Ron's eyes were dilated and his face was livid from anger. Hermione could hear her pulse, could feel her heart beating against her ribcage. When would she be out of this ... nowhere? When would she be surer of where she was and where she was headed?

Was the future ever perceptible?

Hermione hated time. Hated change. Merlin knew how she—that is, Hermione, the neurotic—had been sorted into Gryffindor, she thought to herself. When she had read about Hogwarts the summer before her sorting (oh, how long ago that seemed now…), she had been absolutely positive she was a Ravenclaw, and not a Gryffindor, for she had never viewed herself as needlessly daring; and she had thought she was certainly not a Hufflepuff, for she was far too ambitious and competitive, but... if she had been a pureblood, she had then supposed, she could have been a Slytherin, for not only was she ambitious, but self-preservation had always been one of her elemental drives (it was, after all, the reason as to why she would caution Ron and Harry against impending danger when they had been children).

Childhood seemed so entrenched in the past, so long ago that its memories now felt strange. Now, they were all married. Harry even had a child.

"A child?" hissed Ron, "with Narcissa _fucking_ Malfoy! Are you bloody kidding me?"

Leave it for Ron to state the obvious most inelegantly. Hermione was not astonished by his petulant response.

"Yes, a child," she whispered.

"What the hell, Hermione!" he shrieked. " _I'm_ _your bloody husband_ — you couldn't tell me earlier?!"

"Yes, _you are my husband_ , Ron," said Hermione with a sigh. "It's why I thought I should tell you." She sighed again, utterly exhausted by his crudeness. "And I did… It just took me some time."

"Well, you didn't take _my_ bloody feelings into consideration!" he cried. Hermione could almost see his jugular vein throbbing. He raised his fist and slammed it against the table. Hermione blinked. "You've already made your feckin' decision without me," he said in dark tones. "You want to be in this child's life. And you expect me to be in it too."

 _His_ feelings. She had always worried for his well-being; she had known since he had come from a household with many siblings, he adored children and had wanted his own immensely, so she had felt guilt-ridden and broken for not bearing a child for Ron. Every night, before sleep would take her, Hermione had wondered if she had been a good wife. But had Ron ever wondered if he was a good spouse? When was the last time he had ever asked her about _her_ feelings? Hermione couldn't remember. It was always about him—him and _his_ bloody feelings.

Fuck him.

Without looking back, Hermione rose from her chair and charged towards the front door that was located in the nearby living room. She would have Disapparated with a loud pop, which would have perchance been a more vigorous display of her ire, but a certain incident had damaged her magic.

"Where are you going?!" cried Ron, suddenly realizing that perhaps his conduct hadn't been received well by Hermione.

The front door banged shut.

* * *

The wine was rich and acidic. Hermione basked in how it softly burned her throat until she was interrupted by her own burp. Her cheeks reddened at her uncouth display. "Sorry," she whispered.

Andromeda chuckled. "No need to apologize," she said. "And you'll be sleeping here tonight," she ordered (it wasn't an offer). Her voice was rich and soft, a trademark of the Blacks (Hermione thought of Narcissa).

They were still sitting by the hearth. An hour had passed by since her arrival. She had cried and wept and had been held tightly by Andromeda intermittently. Now, her chest felt less heavy. Her shoulders were less tense. A cloud of calmness had descended on her. "Thank you," she said with sincerity to Andromeda.

"What are friends for?" said the older witch. Hermione could see the flames of the fire dancing in her black eyes. Her hair was wild and curly, untamable. But, in its anarchist tendencies lay its beauty. She thought of Bellatrix, the elder sister. To the superficial observer, they appeared worlds apart: one was a gentle soul, whilst the other was made of the fires of Sheol. However, Hermione was not one with eyes that could only see the outward. Like any person with some sense, Hermione knew people were not vases. What had made Andromeda so different than Bellatrix? They were made of the same elements: both were tremendously passionate people with a certain vivaciousness that was seldom found. Though purebloods and of the aristocracy, they had a penchant for breaking decorum. Bellatrix had become a lieutenant, a profession most unsuitable for a lady, and Andromeda had eloped. They were two sides of the same coin. Perhaps, if Bellatrix had found a Ted, and if Andromeda had not found one, they would have had the other's life (And yet, thought Hermione, the character is often blamed and not the circumstances… when a mortal's life and destiny is not entirely in their control...)

And then there was Narcissa. Narcissa, who was as fair as her namesake.

Who did she take after? Andromeda and Sirius were often said to be the black sheep in their household, but Hermione wondered if it had been Narcissa all along. How lonesome must she have felt, being a quiet and sensitive soul in a gregarious family. It must have been terribly hard for her to feel included. Hermione felt empathy brimming in her heart, for she too had had her fair share of experience with being different: she was a Muggle in a magical world; magical in a Muggle world; a bookworm and an introvert in the loudest house at Hogwarts. Her world was an awful much like Narcissa's, thought Hermione, and yet… they had once been from opposing sides in a war.

And now, they were having a child, a girl who would be half her and half Narcissa. Half pureblood, half muggleborn.

A pariah.

Hermione's jaws clenched. She would never let her little girl go through what she had. She would teach her child her value; she would show her how her differences made her more beautiful.

And fuck Narcissa for not allowing her that privilege.

Hermione suddenly rose from her seat. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Her gaze had become hard and resolute. The older witch beside her had a small smirk on her face, as if she already knew the objective Hermione had in mind. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"I'm going to see an impossible woman," answered Hermione.

The sides of Andromeda's lips upturned. "Ah, impossible, you say? A Black, I presume?"

Hermione realized that one thing Narcissa had in common with all of her siblings was her bloody bullheadedness. "Yes, a Black," she snarled. "I don't give a rat's arse if her imbecilic husband tries to kill me. I'm going to go to Malfoy Manor. Right. Now. And I am going to have a talk with your _maddening_ sister… "

"Well, you're in luck, dear," said Andromeda. "My sister left her 'imbecilic husband' a trifle day ago. You shouldn't worry for your death at his hand... not that he would have been able to kill you, anyhow. "

It took a moment for Hermione to understand the news Andromeda had imparted. "She left her husband..." she whispered. She looked down at Andromeda. The woman was rubbing a slender finger against the rim of her presently empty glass. A smirk danced on her face, a smirk most similar to the one Narcissa often wore when she wished for you to see that she knew more secrets than you.

"Yes, she did, love," Andromeda replied. Her black eyes were glimmering playfully. "Anyhow, you should be more worried at dying by my sister's hand than her husband's... particularly right now. Cissy is not only in a sour, unforgiving mood... but she is also pregnant..." she paused for effect. Her finger stopped gliding slowly against the rim of her glass. "... And that Hermione is a deadly concoction," she warned.

"You know what else can make a 'deadly concoction'?" answered Hermione.

Andromeda raised a brow.

"When you make a mother believe she doesn't want to be in her own child's life with your bloody devious, cunning, sly—"

"Deceitful," added Andromeda, who realized Hermione wanted to say every synonym of the word devious in the dictionary.

"Clever," continued Hermione, whose face had reddened, whose brows had furrowed, and whose hands had turned into fists.

"Mischievous," added Andromeda again (she was letting Hermione have her outburst).

" _Slytherin_ ways!" growled Hermione, at last finishing.

( _Well, I suppose Slytherin could be a synonym for devious_ , thought Andromeda).

Hermione's fists slackened; her fingers uncurled, while she took in a large, shaky breath. "I can't believe it," she whispered to herself. Her mind did not play heed to her body's inebriated state. The wheels in her had had been moving swiftly all day, and they were not inclined to slow down. "She _knew_ I wanted to be in my daughter's life... " she said, "because she's _Narcissa,"_ (Hermione said Narcissa's name as though it were a curse), "and she knows everything. And then she made me believe I was a coward." She looked at Andromeda with enlarged, livid brown eyes. "Because I'm a foolish Gryffindor and that's the last thing I want to hear. Can you believe that, Andromeda? _Me?"_ she pointed a finger at her chest. " _A coward?"_

Andromeda shook her head. "Sounds like something Cissy would do."

" _Me_?" she asked again, this time rhetorically. "Hermione Granger, who was once one of the most wanted citizens in the Wizarding World..."

"I'm pleased to see you've found yourself, love," said Andromeda. She rose and patted Hermione's shoulder. "You're Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger who helped kill He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named... that is, Voldemort."

"Yes, _I_ helped kill Voldemort," said Hermione to herself. It was almost as though she had to verbalize her achievement in order to believe she had actually accomplished it.

"Yes, _you_ did," said Andromeda. She then pointed towards the green powder situated in a bowl above the fireplace with her long index finger. "The floo is there, dear. She's at Black Manor."

Hermione nodded briskly. "Thank you, 'Meda." She then hugged her fiercely and turned towards the fireplace.

Andromeda didn't want to tell the poor woman that Narcissa could be more terrifying than Voldemort; she was after all the witch who had lied before him, despite knowing fully well how he was said to be the most powerful Legilimens in the Wizarding World (Andromeda had never believed the hype; she had always known her sister was a far better Legilimens). And furthermore, her Slytherin sister was ironically just as fearless as the Gryffindor who was on her way to see her (the truth was, Slytherins were not cowards. How could a house that valued ambition be cowardly? Ambition warranted bravery. Slytherins could be as fearless as Gryffindors in their pursuit for a certain outcome... )

Hermione, the greatest witch of her generation (and greatness is a thing wanted most by Slytherins) would have been a splendid Slytherin, thought Andromeda to herself.

Suddenly, she shivered.

What sort of child could be fashioned out of two women who were said to be the greatest witches amongst their peers? She pondered. Surely, when impossible and extraordinary temperaments such as theirs fused, it would create _the_ most impossible and ingenious person; perhaps, even an individual who would wish for nothing more than world domination... just to see if they could do it.

"I must have word with Minerva when the time comes," said the witch gravely to herself as she poured herself more wine, "to ensure the girl is sorted into Hufflepuff..."

No tyrant had ever come out of that house.

She sighed.

Then again, perhaps her niece would be the first.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Hey!

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I decided some humour was needed and Andromeda was a great help in brightening up the mood. I wonder how Narcissa will react to Hermione's sudden presence in her house? She certainly won't be pleased!

As always, your feedback is much appreciated! Do tell me if I'm going in the right direction... if you're enjoying it so far, and if you would like to see something. I'm open to suggestions!

Hope you're all enjoying your summer! :)


	12. Chapter 11: The Thing in Her Heart

**Chapter 11: The Thing in Her Heart**

* * *

 _"Have you ever hoped for something?_

 _And held out for it against all the odds?_

 _Until everything you did was ridiculous? "_

 _~ Ali Shaw, The Girl With Glass Feet_

* * *

The library at Black Manor was enormously large and gigantic. In fact, it was so enormous and complex that to the unacquainted individual it would have appeared to have been a maze, for they would have found themselves lost within its labyrinth of towering bookshelves. It was laden with a thick sheet of dust, which gave it an almost unearthly quality. Once, it had been utterly clean, and not a speck of dust could have been found on its exquisite furnitures, and the dark mahogany woods of its floors and shelves (Narcissa's mother had made sure of that).

The dust was presently shimmering from the dim moonlight that was peering in through the rose tinted windows; Narcissa's tousled, whitish hair also glowed with the dust. With her legs tucked under her bottom, she was sitting pensively on a leather sofa in the sitting area. She was holding a book containing Wizarding poetry; poetry was often her method of escape, but tonight, she was facing a predicament: her mind was not willing to escape, for her thoughts were focused on a certain woman with sorel eyes and untameable hair.

This had been her predicament ever since her last meeting with 'the girl', as she often referred to her in her mind (Hermione was also often referred to as 'the bloody girl,' 'the damnable girl', amongst other titles, such as 'that imbecile', 'that bloody fool', etc).

Narcissa's presently disobedient mind was thinking about Hermione. Constantly. Those peeving, brown eyes of her kept on whirling into her mind's eye. What was this feeling in her heart that she could not be relieved of? It felt heavy and thick like bile, and it made her feel terribly sick and filthy and... guilty.

Wait. Was it guilt? Could it be guilt? Narcissa did not know if she could still feel anything for others. But this thing in her heart. It was a feeling. It felt like a feeling. It felt much like how she would feel when she would ponder over how much more she could have done for her little boy, Draco.

 _Oh, Merlin._ It _was_ a feeling. It was guilt.

Narcissa's fingers clenched the edges of the book harder; she despised how Hermione held so much control over her feelings. Rosy lips trembled. She wished she was made of ice (as many claimed). At times, she wished for the blood in her veins to turn cold. But, her blood was hot and passionate, and _that imbecile_ was controlling its flow, and _goddamn it!-_

She flung her book at the floor, and just then, Narcissa thought she had heard something: footsteps. Perhaps, it was a house elf? One day, she had realized the manor was still a home to some of the house elves of her childhood; she had been walking down a corridor when she had seen thin, grey legs scuttling away. When she had caught the house elf by her arms and brought her near herself, she had discerned it was the elf that had taken care of her when she had been young; now, she was old and her skin was creased. "Please! Don't kick Wimpy out!" the elf had cried pathetically, whilst trembling in her arms. "Please don't!"

"What?" a confused Narcissa had whispered. "Why would I kick you - " then, she had come to recall the previous owners (that is to say, her parents) had had trouble with discriminating between a bludger and a house-elf. "This one stares too much," her mother had said to Bella once. "Go now! Shoo!" she had told the house elf, an old elf that had served the Black household for decades. The elf had then been thrown out. At this memory, Narcissa had frowned. "Don't fret," she had said gently to Wimpy. "I shan't be removing any of you from the estate."

The house elves had turned sickly and thin, as they had had little food around during the negligence of the manor. Upon this discovery, Narcissa made sure they had an ample amount of sustenance. Nevertheless, some of them persisted in their paranoia and distrust: they were stricken with the fear that she would change her mind, and shun them out at a moment's notice; so, some of the house elves still hid from her, and walked only in the shadows.

"Is anyone there?" cried Narcissa. Her rich, patrician voice echoed throughout the aisles. _I'm such a fool,_ she suddenly cursed at herself mentally, as her higher mind had turned alert. What if it was an intruder? She should not have cried aloud. Now, being fearful and oversuspicious, she wondered if Lucius had paid some of the men he knew in Knockturn Alley a handsome fee to assassinate her. It was not a farfetched possibility. Lucius now knew the child was not his, as on the day she had left him, she had placed a letter on the bed in their chamber, in which she had stated:

 _The child is not yours._

 _Without regret,_

 _Narcissa_

One day, Lucius had mentioned over dinner how he could not approve of her visits with her sister: "I disapprove of your visits with the blood traitor. Do you wish for our image to be tarnished? What would your father say?" he had said in his lazy voice. So, the next day, enraged and furious, Narcissa had made sure that his image would certainly be tarnished. She had placed the aforesaid letter on their chamber's bed before flooing away forever from Malfoy Manor. No other explanation for her departure was given ( _well_ , leaving Lucius had not taken much forethought; then again, all those years she had spent with him had given her sufficient time to ponder over the failings of their marriage). Evidently, to torment him, Narcissa had left out important information pertaining to the conceivement of her child. Accordingly, Lucius naturally believed she had had an affair.

And fearful of ruining his name, pride and glory, Lucius being Lucius most likely wanted her dead now, thought Narcissa. She mentally chuckled; she couldn't even hold it against him. Having known him for half her life, she was positive being an egocentric git was his curse, and only the gods could help him.

Nonetheless, the footsteps had halted. There was no way anyone could have trespassed into the manor, save through Androomeda's fireplace, as there was ancient, protective magic placed on the manor. Narcissa picked up the book she had flung to the floor in her bout of fury, and settled back down onto the leather sofa. She was sure she was safe; but as she wondered if the footsteps she had heard a moment before had been a figment of her imagination, she heard them again: they were slow, and they would stop for moments. It seemed as if the person they belonged to was wandering in circles, lost; of course, they would be, seeing how her family's library was enormous, and not to mention, much like a maze. It had taken her many years to become acquainted with its complex networks, and even now, she at times found herself lost within its aisles and bookshelves.

 _It's best to remain quiet_ , Narcissa realized, for if this was an intruder, then drawing attention to oneself was not advised. A Slytherin, she was talented at self-preservation, and now that she was with-child, the instinct could be felt even more potently. Adrenaline flowed through her veins. Narcissa clenched her wand firmly in her hand, placed the book gingerly on the sofa, and slid away from the sitting area in the library.

She thought of ways to leave the library without drawing notice. There was another entrance in the back. The footsteps were coming from ahead; thus, she could leave from the back. Would she then floo to Andromeda? No, the intruder had most likely come from her sister's fireplace. Heart brimmed with worry, she frowned; she prayed her sister was out of harm's way.

She would have to floo somewhere else. Diagon Alley's pub, the Leakey Cauldron would do. There, she would then contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (and thinking of the department made her think of Hermione; she hoped she would not have to see even a lock of her feral hair).

Taking quick and quiet steps, Narcissa walked through an aisle, then another, and then a few more until she realized she was right where she had begun. The ancestor who had built this manor was said to have been somewhat of an eccentric (lunatic, more like); there were dead ends, and one could only make their way through the library if they had lived within the manor or if they had a map of it in hand. Unfortunately, Narcissa had lived decades outside of the manor, and it seemed her memory was failing her; she also did not have a map.

 _Well. Fuck._

Narcissa then mentally chastised herself for being so crass; but, she supposed being crass could be excused, owing to the predicament she now found herself in: she was lost, pregnant, and there most likely was an intruder in her midst. Wand held even more snugly in hand, she resumed her vigilant walk through the aisles. Perhaps, she should have gone left instead - _yes, left -_

When suddenly, she heard a cough. From her periphery vision, she caught sight of a large shadow with a seemingly large head (little did she know, it was dark and the lights were playing tricks; the shadow was a gross magnification of the actual person it belonged to. The individual's head was average sized, but their hair was quite untamed, so in shadow form, their head appeared to be exceedingly large).

 _A troll,_ Narcissa decided. She swallowed her saliva, and held her wand even more tightly; her knuckles blanched. She pointed at the shadow and wordlessly casted the first jinx that came to mind. Then, she ran.

Fear ridden and delirious, she had overlooked the fact that trolls were rather large creatures, so a troll could have not gone through her sister's fireplace. And besides, why would have Lucius paid a troll to assassinate her? Trolls were not the most intelligent magical creatures around, and Lucius would have ensured to have employed only the most cunning of assassins.

She stopped in her tracks. Narcissa's higher mind were pulling the reigns again; she realized that if it had been a troll, she would have heard a large thud, naturally. The floors and shelves would have shaken, and a few books would have fallen off of them. But none of that had occurred.

It was most likely not a troll.

 _Oh gods._

Narcissa understood the lights had been playing tricks.

What if it was Andromeda? Her hair was large and wild.

She turned around and started to run back towards where she had seen the shadow. Only, she found herself lost once more within the aisles. She huffed, breathless, before cursing her ancestor for building such a stupid library.

Just then, she heard a groan. Her attention whirled to where the sound had originated. There, her vision caught sight of legs peeking out of the side of a bookshelf. Without thought, she scampered towards the body.

There was blood.

A pale, young woman was lying down in the crimson liquid. Her thick, brown hair was in a tangled mess. Her eyes were unfocused and lazy. She was semi-unconscious.

She knew the woman.

"Her - Hermione?!" she cried as she fell onto her knees beside her. Narcissa's heart pounded against her ribcage. Oh gods. In her frenzied state, she had used the sectumsempra. She grabbed the younger witch's head and placed it on her thighs. Her cream nightgown was soon soaked in her blood. "Lumos," she whispered. She inspected her skin, and found a large gash on the side of her neck. Blood was spurting out of the cut in heavy loads. It had been hard to locate. She wrapped a trembling hand around the cut. Her thoughts were racing. "Morgana help me," she whispered frantically, as she brushed a stray lock of brown hair away from the younger woman's face.

The woman then stirred. A frail smile danced on her face. She whispered something, but Narcissa could not hear her clearly, as she was far too panicked and unhinged. If the woman died, she would be a murderer - oh gods. Oh gods. And worst of all, she would have killed her child's mother. How could she face her daughter?

Hot tears poured down alabaster skin. Narcissa's wet, silver eyes could not bear to see Hermione in such a terrible state. Out of her mind, Narcissa rambled: " _Hermione_ ," she croaked, "you are not a coward - I - I was attempting to deceive you," she divulged, "so that you would leave me." She gulped, astonished at the words that were flowing out of her. "I am sorry - I was frightened - I don't know why... but you frighten me," she revealed (to Hermione and herself), while hot tears continued to rush down her cheeks.

"Forgive me, please," Narcissa finally whispered.

As Narcissa had spoken, Hermione's smile had grown wider. She seemed slightly delirious from the pain; her agony was such that she was almost euphoric. Her lips moved. She was whispering something again. Narcissa neared her face to the woman's. Inches away, breaths mingling, she could hear her now:

"You said my name," murmured Hermione. Her tired eyes shimmered. _"Twice."_

At that, Narcissa's lips curled. She choked on her cry. " _Oh_ ," she whispered softly. "You _stupid, stupid_ girl."

She had to do something.

(Because of the thing in her heart; it was a feeling. But it most likely wasn't just guilt).

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

So sorry for the late update! I was on vacation, and I also simply felt like I needed a break from this story, as I was just feeling like I couldn't write it with my usual fervor and passion. I guess I was dealing with writer's block. But the vacation helped, so hopefully you'll be seeing quicker updates now!

And I feel such love and warmth from your reviews! Thank you for leaving them and taking the time out of your day to acknowledge that my writing has impacted you in a good way. Makes me feel amazing! :)

Hope you're all doing well. Sending love!


	13. Chapter 12: A Different Kind of Pain

**Chapter 12: A Different Kind of Pain**

* * *

" _You were a pain, then. You still are. You're just a different kind of pain to me."_

— Amber Silvia, Unspoken

* * *

There were voices in the distance, familiar yet unrecognizable, for Hermione's mind was wrapped in a thick fog. She could not focus on them. She was somewhere else. A dream? A memory, perhaps?

Hermione found herself on a hill by the sea in a French town.

She heard voices. Young, tender ones.

She looked back at where they had originated. Two adolescent girls with thick, dark curls were behind her. They were running. She noticed she was running too, and though she felt everything—her feet as they thudded against the grassy ground, the wind as it swept through her hair—Hermione was not in control of herself. This was not her body. No. She was tall, lean and otherworldly pale. And from the corner of her eyes, she could see her hair: silvery blonde locks furling from the wind.

She was racing against the girls; they were striving to reach the top of the hill. And it was that bewitching time of day when both the moon and sun shined together. The weather was a lovely mix of warmth and chill. Overhead, the sun's rays had glazed the sky the colours of an apricot. The sunset was magnificent; every shade between red and yellow was to be seen.

She sighed dreamily, and thought peace was to be found in this moment in time.

Upon reaching the very top of the knoll, Hermione toppled to the ground. "I won," she stated while gasping for air. Her voice was tender like the two girls. She was young. Thirteen or fourteen.

"No you didn't," argued the girl with the darkest hair, who was just as breathless. "I did," she said firmly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. _Why does it matter?_ Death was the only winner, she thought philosophically. "Fine, if it makes you happy," she answered, allowing the other girl to relish an undeserved and trivial moment of glory, as she was not in the mood for arguments. Her notice had been taken by the sound of waves crashing gently against the shore, the seagulls, and the wind as it was sighing. The moment was intoxicating (Were these memories? Hermione wondered whilst adrift in the dream. And who was she? She did not feel and look very much like herself; her hair was smooth and blonde, and her conversations were partially in French).

"I can _feel_ eternity here," she whispered in French to the two girls (Hermione could understand it peculiarly) while lying on the grass. She closed her eyes for a moment, and was able to feel the vastness, and the mysteries of the universe: the wind, the air, the trees, the dandelions, the grass— everything felt alive. Magic was to be found in everything. Perhaps, there was no difference between magic and life; she could even feel her magical core… or perhaps it was her soul, if there was such a thing. And her heart— it was beating rapidly, for it was brim with hope, dreams, curiosity, and the yearning for the most beautiful thing in all of the galaxies:

 _Love._

Suddenly, she was drawn out of her reverie. One of the curly haired girls had giggled. "You seem awfully buoyant, Cissy. Did you see the woman again in one of your dreams?" the girl asked. "Do you think it's true—past lives, that is?"

 _Cissy?_

So, she was Narcissa.

This was another one of those bizarre dreams. Hermione mentally sighed; why had it come about? She could not remember the details of what had occurred before this dream had overtaken her. She thought hard, but only small scraps of information could be recalled. This dream wished to possess her. It was a magnet; it attracted all her focus.

"I am not sure," she replied. Not her. Not really. It was Narcissa. But it was her too… somehow. It was hard to remove herself from Narcissa's reality. "I see her with different faces," she said, "— at times, in a different time period." A frown frolicked across her face. "I suppose I shall never know who she is!"

Who was she talking about? If Hermione could, she would have raised a brow. But this was not her person.

The girl with the darkest hair, Bellatrix most likely, rolled her eyes and groaned. " _Oh gods._ Will the both of you stop talking about such _rubbish_?"

Andromeda, who was lying by her side, ignored her other sister and whispered to her: "Perhaps she is your soulmate?"

"Shut up, will you?" Bellatrix hissed from her other side, irked that they were lost in conversation about a topic she disapproved of. "And how the bloody hell can _her_ soulmate be a woman— if you haven't noticed, _our secretly Hufflepuff, Miss Sunshine_ , has a _fanny._ "

Hermione snorted mentally. She couldn't believe Narcissa had been called _Miss Sunshine._ And a _Hufflepuff._

"Must you speak that way?" she groaned. "And I'm _not_ a _Ms. Sunshine,_ " she said while clenching her teeth and turning her head to her. "And I am _not secretly_ a Hufflepuff. I got a hatstall between Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

She heard Andromeda chuckle. "Ah, half-truths are lies too, Cissy! You said the hat did momentarily consider putting you in Hufflepuff. Wouldn't be alarmed if you… were supposed..." Andromeda's voice had faded, as she had given her a penetrative gaze. "... on second thought, with that stare—" Andromeda smiled, "... you're a Slytherin through and through _._ " Andromeda then turned her notice to Bellatrix, "And, _oh please Bella,_ there's such a thing called _homosexuality_ and I— like many others— believe it's entirely normal!" She groaned suddenly. "Stop being such a Muggle. It's unbecoming. _We're_ witches for Merlin's sake. Our ancestors were _pagans_. They loved to make love... _in all its forms._ And besides, _everyone_ knows papa did not have a preference for the fairer sex in his formative years; so, would you call him a lunat—"

" _Shut up! Ugh._ You talk incessantly. You're bloody annoying," Bellatrix rose her voice and sat upright. Her black eyes glowed with ire. "And they're lies. _Just_ rumours. And we're not pagans _anymore_. Papa and Mama are irreligious. Religion is for peasants— they need something to believe in. We're above that sort of idiocy."

"Then why do we still celebrate Yule?" asked Andromeda. Bella's features turned sourer. And Andromeda beamed, overjoyed that she had annoyed her elder sister even more, whilst endeavouring to annoy her _even more._

Bellatrix understood her sister's objective. Her obsidian eyes narrowed. "Do you wish to be jinxed?"

Andromeda sat upright as well and flared her nostrils at Bella."You are such a little shite sometimes."

Bellatrix gnarled. A walnut wand was suddenly pointed at Andromeda (Hermione shivered as she saw the familiar wand; now, it was in soft, smooth hands… then, it had been in hands thinned and creased by years of being tethered to metal chains in Azkaban).

"Stop it will—" she started, intervening, but they were not listening, so she gave up on being the mediator. _Fuck it._ There was no use. They were stubborn, hardheaded Blacks. And they would fight for the hell of it.

"Okay!" Andromeda yelled; relenting, she held her hands in the air. "I get it. I'll shut up."

That had been alarming. She was glad no one would be going home with a broken nose.

While Andromeda aimed various profanities under her breath at Bellatrix, she returned to looking at the infinite sky overhead.

She basked in its beauty.

Soon, Bellatrix's restless mind had gotten the best of her; fortunately, the eldest sister had decided to run down the hill towards the sea, where she was now throwing pebbles into the water.

Andromeda, who was still lying by her side, placed her hand against hers. "What are you thinking about?" she murmured.

A small smile emerged on her face. " _Secrets,"_ she whispered back. She could feel secrets wishing to be unearthed; the mysteries in the world were overwhelming and thrilling. Who was this woman who came to her dreams? She thought (Well, it wasn't her really. It had been Narcissa, but she was Narcissa now— and yet herself, too. It was all very much confusing).

Hermione found herself perplexed; who was this woman Narcissa was speaking of? Narcissa's thoughts were only partially clear. She could hear them, but they were muffled and not wholly revealed; perhaps, she could not make sense of them, for Narcissa had such an odd and complicated way of thinking; she did not really think, per say. She thought in words only sporadically. She felt the world intuitively, through feelings and moods— presently, in Narcissa there was life to be felt: something light yet heavy, magnificent and frightening… almost sacred and ethereal.

Was it… love perhaps?

And then, there was something else as well, hidden underneath it: It made her feel restless, and nervous and worried… as if waves of water were rolling past her lips, and pouring into her lungs.

It was fear.

Hermione wanted it to stop. All these feelings were overwhelming, paralyzing…

And not to mention, breathtaking.

She felt like she was drowning in Narcissa.

This woman lived intensely. No, she was intensity. And she was lost in all her layers, all the magnitudes of her intensity.

And Hermione loved it. And hated herself for loving it. By drowning in Narcissa, she was losing herself… she was … going… fading… maybe she was dying. Maybe this was death _. (Or love, maybe,_ said the voice of her conscience _)._

She sighed. Now, Narcissa. "I think the woman in my dream… warned me," she said gravely.

Andromeda raised a brow. "What about?"

"I am not sure— it was a feeling. At times, they don't speak in dreams. You simply feel them."

"What did you feel?" Andromeda probed.

"I felt frightened," she explained. "I was frightened … because – I – I believe one day I'm going to forget her somehow."

" _Hmm_ ," said Andromeda, puzzled. "Odd, seeing how you're gifted with a remarkable memory." Then, feeling unnerved by the agitation and worry emanating from her sister, Andromeda consoled,"Perhaps, you just have an overactive imagination? Perhaps none of it means anything?" Andromeda then clenched her hand. A gesture of comfort.

She sighed in return. "Perhaps," a whisper left. _Hopefully,_ a part of her wished. She then gazed at the sun. It was at last setting. And she stayed there on the hill for a very long time. Darkness ate away the reds and oranges in the sky.

And when the first star twinkled in the night sky, a pearly tear fell down her cheek.

She had wished upon the star to remember.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the shadiest and most covert part of Knockturn Alley, there was a pub. Little did the government of Wizarding England know, this was a safe house for a new undercover group that had formed since the end of the last war. Its numbers had grown and now hundreds of people across Wizarding England had joined. No one spoke of it, as keeping it a secret was one of its rules. Their symbol was of an iron dagger with a circle around, a runic symbol for justice.

A man entered the pub wearing dark robes. His face was pale with freckles, and tufts of red hair emerged from his hood. Whilst standing on a table before the crowd that had gathered within, he spoke: "Those purebloods have ruined our lives," he began with forced passion. He then gulped, unsure of his words. Perhaps, he could not remember them. "We, here, today have amalgamated to serve – um justice. Every single pureblood – uh –that had been on the wrong side of the war will be… uh dealt with in a just fashion." He was remembering lines. This had been rehearsed. "We must do what is right. That is to say, they must die."

At this, the crowd roared and cheered.

"What do they deserve?" he then asked.

The people in the pub waited expectantly, knowing very well what was to be said. They were passionate fools. An eye for an eye, they wished. Being the fools they were, they had forgotten the rest of the saying (figuratively, that is).

"I'll tell you what they deserve! You see. Today," said the redheaded man, "we will lay down our plans: our goal is to get rid of the Wizarding World of pureblood ideals _permanently_ , and it appears that the only way to do – to do so is to – uh get rid of them, as history has proved again and again to us that _they_ will never be on our side. En–entrenched," he stuttered, unused to the word, "in their old-fashioned and – um outdated ways, they do not belong in our modern society. So, it is death that they deserve for having... um... made innocents suffer from their bigotry! Hundreds have died because of them and yet they still roam amongst us."

The croud cheered again.

"So, um yes. And our final… uh goal is to merge Wizarding England with the Muggle world," he continued. "It's time for us to no longer hide! We must no longer fear the Muggles. They are just like us. And besides, it is _them_ who should fear us."

He was answered with nodding heads.

Invigorated by the approval he was receiving, the volume of his voice increased: " _Imagine_ a world where you must no longer hide your identity! The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy is a great injustice to us all!"

At this, beer cups thudded against the grimy, wooden tables. More hollers and cheers were to be heard.

"It is time for justice to be served," the man drawled, suddenly confident.

* * *

Those voices had become clearer. Hermione was no longer dreaming; instead, she was now in some place between sleep and alertness.

"She's dying, Narcissa – She hasn't woken up. It has been two days already." A heavy sigh. "I cannot believe you used the Sectum –"

"Don't - 'Meda. Don't say that, 'Meda. _Please don't,"_ said another voice. This one sounded terribly exhausted.

"Don't say what?" whispered the other woman.

"... Not dying…" murmured the other woman, almost deliriously. "She's not. She can't," she said like a chant.

Another heavy sigh could be heard. "Cissy. You must sleep… in your condition. You don't want to put strain on the child."

Suddenly, there was a snivel. "What would she say to me?" whispered the voice that sounded terribly tired.

"Who?" asked the other woman.

"If her mother dies by my hand… _this_ child would deplore me…" her voice waned. Her breath caught in her throat. "'Meda. _What if she dies?_ "

" _Shh_. She's breathing now."

"I'm terrible… _I'm horrid._ Merlin! Oh gods," she said hysterically. "If she dies. _I_ – _I_ _can't. I can't."_ A gasp and another snivel. " _... Would_ – _would_ _you_ then please take care of my daughter for me, 'Meda–– "A hiccup. "I know it's– it's much to ask – but I shan't be able to face this child, you see…"

" _Shh_. You're feverish, _Cissy_. Calm yourself. Hermione is fine. She's breathing. See, look here – remove your head from my chest, look now – _See?_ Her complexion has gained some colour."

Another sniffle. "Oh gods, Cissy. Although you look more endearing when you're sniffling, I still abhor seeing you cry. Here, wipe your nose with this."

"Are you _certain_ she is improving, 'Meda?" the woman croaked weakly after a moment. "I – I cannot see a difference. A trifle moment ago, you thought she was dying –– Oh, I know you're lying to me, 'Meda!" She was overcome by breathing spasms. "What if she die–" A gasp. "What if she ––"

" _Shhhh."_

Hermione heard another little gasp.

"You cannot see a difference, as you're terribly tired and exhausted, Cissy. Look at you! There are dark circles under your eyes. You haven't slept in two days." She huffed. "I don't know how you've managed to do that in your condition… I loved to sleep with 'Dora as much as I could, even if the whole world was falling at its seams... And yet, you've been sitting in this chair for the past forty eight hours…"

" _I_ – _I_ _must."_

"But you can't, Cissy. You must sleep soon."

Another gasp, followed by a whisper: " _I must,_ 'Meda _."_

" _Don't be impossible,"_ said the calmer woman sternly. "If you don't sleep soon, Cissy, _I_ will make sure you do – you'll be made to drink a sleeping draught! Now, breathe deeply, so you can stop palpitating… Take a deep breath."

Hermione heard an inhale.

" _Good. Take another one_ "

After a few more inhlations, she spoke: "All right. Very well, 'Meda… if you insist, I will sleep. Nevertheless," weary, she paused for a moment to catch some vigor; her voice had become delicate and throaty from crying, "What was I saying? Ah yes, permit me to treat the wound again?" She yawned softly. "And, will you be able to stay by her side while I sleep?" she asked before yawning softly again. It was clear that she was exceptionally tired.

"Yes, of course, Cissy."

Then, there was silence for a few moments. Hermione could smell a fragrance: it was light yet dark, sweet yet spicy, a smell she had become accustomed to: roses and sandalwood. The fragrance then grew stronger, grew nearer. She felt something soft rub against her neck. Fingers. Delicate, long ones. They were rubbing an ointment against the tender skin of her neck; the hand was warm and she basked in the warmth it exuded. The scar on her hand tingled briefly in a pleasant way. She sighed mentally at the touch. Breathed in the fragrance. Soothed. The fingers stopped moving against her neck for a moment. Perhaps, she had not sighed within the confines of her mind? Had this woman, who smelled wonderfully and felt wonderful, heard her sigh?

She thought she might have blushed, but she couldn't tell. Then, sleep took her again.

After some time, her mind was partially awoken by a delicate, smooth hand holding hers. Hermione was not sure if it was a dream. She could smell roses and sandalwood again. And there was something wet falling against the skin of her neck. Tears.

Someone started to whisper near her ear. A woman with a dark, rich and memorable voice. Her warm breath touched her ears. The scar on her hand tingled again. "Severus told me a wound made by the Sectumsempra can be healed by incanting _Vulnera Sanentur,_ but I could not recall the lines. He also mentioned how it can be healed with tears of…" She stopped herself; she could not bear to say the word ( _love_ , that is). "And when my tears fell on your wound, it somehow began to heal… " and then the voice waned. Moments passed in stillness. Then, the woman whispered, "However, it cannot be me. No. _I shall not allow it._ If there are gods, they are wrong." A sniffle. "You must know that it is best for you this way…" Hermione could feel her hair being gently tucked behind her ears. She heard the woman exhale a deep breath. "For I am heartless and cold and undeserving… "

And then sleep took Hermione again.

When she awoke the next time, she was entirely cognizant of her environment. Brown eyes peered into brown.

It was Andromeda.

Andromeda was looking down below at her. Her curly hair was put up into a messy bun. A warm smile was displayed on her regal features. Her eyes were shimmering.

"You're awake!" she cried.

Hermione could only groan. Her whole body ached.

And unfortunately, as is often the case when one becomes extremely ill, Hermione could not remember much of anything that had occurred during the period of her sickness: Narcissa's soft whispers by her bedside could not be recalled, and neither could the dream she had perceived––both were hidden somewhere in the recesses of her mind.

"You almost died," said Andromeda rather bluntly.

" _Died_?" croaked Hermione, not quite alarmed by the news. She had been in such a circumstance more than a few times. Being notified that she had almost died was not a first, in other words.

"We have been so worried!" exclaimed Andromeda. "Narcissa has not slept for days."

Narcissa was here? And she had been worried for her? And she hadn't slept for days?

Hermione snorted. Andromeda could be hilarious at times.

"I wish I could believe that," she whispered, voice still weak from sickness. Narcissa would never sacrifice her sleep for her, thought Hermione (if only Hermione could remember…).

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Poor Hermione! Hopefully, she recollects her memories. And Narcissa must always make things complicated!

Thoughts? Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

And thank you _sooo_ much for all the lovely reviews and comments. You guys are WONDERFUL, and know that your thoughts and constructive criticism are _always_ appreciated. :)


	14. Chapter 13: Some Bewitching

**Chapter 13: Some Bewitching Under the Moonlight**

* * *

 _"Your task is not to seek for love,_

 _but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself_

 _that you have built against it."_

 _~ Rumi_

* * *

Hermione could not keep her food down. She played with it on her plate, whilst watching Narcissa from the corner of her eyes; the other witch seemed as dispassioned from her food as her. Silver eyes were rimmed by dark circles. Hermione realized Andromeda hadn't been lying; Narcissa hadn't slept.

They were sitting around a large, opulent dinner table. Narcissa had seated herself between her nephew, Teddy, and Andromeda. She had remained silent for much of dinner after having apologized to Hermione in a rather detached manner: "I am sorry for having nearly killed you, Ms. Granger, but you must realize you trespassed into my manor," she had whispered coolly. At that, Andromeda had given her sister a rather gelid and disapproving stare. "Really, Cissy?" she had said under her breath when she had thought Hermione hadn't been paying attention.

Andromeda was now investigating her memory. "So, you cannot recall anything?" she asked.

Hermione pursed her lips as she thought hard. She could only recall arriving at the manor. She had been attempting to find Narcissa; that night, Hermione had found the tingling sensation in her hand would increase when she would go in certain directions. She had recalled Harry's scar, and had pondered if hers functioned in a similar manner. So, she had followed the sensation, which had led her to a large and very complex yet stupid library…

Everything following that was a blur.

Hermione frowned. Through her peripheral vision, she noticed Narcissa biting on her lips. She had come to understand through her interactions with Narcissa that the witch only bit on her lips when she was tremendously nervous. What could she possibly be nervous about? wondered Hermione. Was Narcissa perhaps afraid of what she could and could not remember?

Did Narcissa want her to _not_ remember a memory?

The only way she could find out was if she decided to lie about how much she could recall. "I'm starting to remember more," she lied to Andromeda. Narcissa suddenly eyed her. Silver eyes expanded.

Ah.

So, there were indeed things that had occurred between them that the blonde did not want her to remember.

Hermione smirked. That devious, cunning woman. Had she perhaps tinkered with her memories? No. Andromeda had been with her the entire time, so she would have kept Narcissa ethical during the treatment of her wound.

" _Splendid_ ," said Andromeda. "I'm sure you'll start to remember more with time, although there is very little to be recalled," said Andromeda. "You were sleeping for the past _four_ days. We were terribly worried, _especially_ Narcissa."

Hermione thought of Narcissa tending to her wound. She gazed at Narcissa briefly and noticed the witch was purposely diverting her attention; she was wiping Teddy's face with a napkin. Her cheeks were splashed with pink. Wait. Was she blushing? Hermione mentally sniggered.

The corner of her lips upturned, and just then, Narcissa's gaze lifted from Teddy and fell on hers. The blonde noticed the smug smirk and her brows creased.

Furious, she rose from her seat. "I have other matters I must attend to," she declared. "Excuse me."

Andromeda rolled her eyes. When Narcissa had left, she began to chuckle. "The two of you are absolute imbeciles."

Hermione frowned… because Andromeda was right.

"Go after her," said Andromeda. Her knowing eyes twinkled. Hermione felt her cheeks turn warm. "And don't fall for her bitter words."

She nodded, left the dinner table, and followed the sound of heels clicking and clacking against the ground. The scar on her hand was also tingling pleasantly again, which meant Narcissa was nearby. Hermione moved through the corridors and noted that the eyes of everyone in the portraits were upon her. They were whispering and muttering. It seemed Hermione's presence in the manor had caused a stir amongst the portraits.

All of a sudden, Narcissa's heels were clacking against the marble floors more swiftly; she knew Hermione was behind her.

" _Narcissa_!" Hermione cried out, because fuck formalities. They were very much beyond formalities.

They were going to have a child together.

Hermione arrived to the foyer. On the spiral staircase before her, she caught sight of Narcissa's back. Long tendrils of blonde hair flowed down her white gown. Hermione shivered from beholding the moonlight as it peered in through the windows and made Narcissa's whole person shimmer.

" _Narcissa_ ," she said again, but this time, very softly.

Her voice had been but a whisper, and yet Narcissa had heard her, for she had halted. A moment passed in silence. Then, Narcissa began to march again. " _Narcissa_ ," said Hermione again. "This is ridiculous," she continued when she began to climb up the stairs. "We are having a child together—"

Suddenly, a female voice boomed: " _So_ , this is the Mudblood! Now, _really_ Narcissa, you could have done much better. _Merlin_ , look at her hair!" Hermione turned her attention to where the voice had ushered from, and there she saw a pale woman with blonde hair and angry silver eyes. Next to her portrait was the portrait of a man with dark, unruly hair and black eyes. These were most likely Narcissa's awful parents.

She didn't have time to introduce herself to them, as Narcissa was walking away.

" _Narcissa_ ," she called after her once more. "Stop for a moment, will you? _You're_ the one always walking away and you want me to believe that _I'm_ the coward."

Narcissa turned her head around to her for a moment. The grey in her eyes had shifted to blue. Hermione noticed her complexion had paled.

The woman was about to walk into a chamber—her room, most likely. Hermione swiftly sprinted towards the chamber, and just as its door was about to close on her, she managed to dive into the room.

Tired from the exertion, seeing how she had not even fully recovered, Hermione's heart was pounding loudly. But once settled into the room, she could not understand why her heart had begun to pound even louder.

She tried to find blonde tendrils and did: Narcissa was standing in the veranda with her back towards her. Her nearly white hair was swaying softly in the wind, while her arms were folded against her chest. She was either lost in thought or waiting for her to speak first.

Hermione knew the Slytherin was always aware of her environs; Narcissa knew of her presence, and was waiting for her to speak.

So, she walked gingerly towards the woman. " _Narcissa_?" she whispered behind her.

But, she did not turn around. Hermione thought she had seen her tremor.

She reached Narcissa, and faced her side profile. Silver eyes were staring at the stars.

" _Narcissa_ , we _must_ speak," she murmured firmly.

Narcissa's lips curled slowly. She remained quiet for a moment; but then, she said, "Don't say my name." The usual edge and coldness to her tone was missing. It had not been a reprimand; it had been a plea. She had pled, as if she would break and shatter if Hermione did not confer… if she called her by her name again. Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat; Narcissa's vulnerable and delicate soul was frightening to behold. She wished to bring her near, to hold her tightly in her arms, to be the barriers she had put around herself.

"I will call you by your name," she countered. If Narcissa thought she was a coward, she would show her she was not.

At this, the pale witch shivered. Her hands trembled. Hermione caught her burying them beneath her elbows. She enfolded her arms more snugly to hide them.

This woman did not want to reveal her fragility.

But, could she not remember that she already had on that battlefield when they had been enemies— when she had been holding a wand to her own chest?

"Narcissa. You were trying to commit suicide that day," whispered Hermione. "I was there. I stopped you. Remember?"

Narcissa shut her eyes, and pursed her lips, as if she knew this moment had been coming, where Hermione would pierce through her every layer, every wall, until she was left bare and raw, shaking and trembling before her.

" _Don't_ ," she begged once more, but it had been whispered weakly, as she had intuited her plea would not be granted.

Her instinct had been right. Hermione continued, pushed on. She was unrelenting. "I've always known why." Narcissa clenched her eyes harder. "You wanted to kill yourself because what you loved most was gone. And even though it was someone else who had killed Draco, you thought you had killed him. You thought you could have saved him if you had been stronger before difficult choices. You are always blaming yourself now. You're always wondering if Draco would have been alive if you had left Lucius long ago, and turned your back on your family." Hermione sighed. "But, I want to tell you why you never left Lucius until now. Know that it wasn't because you were a coward."

Narcissa opened her eyes and gently turned her head towards Hermione. Silver eyes were now sky blue, and they were glimmering. They stood still under the moonlight for a moment.

Until Hermione reached out and wrapped her hand around Narcissa's wrist.

Narcissa's pursed lips parted from the unexpected deed. Her enfolded arms fell apart at her touch. Hermione was both frightened and emboldened by her effect. She moved her hand from Narcissa's wrist to her hand. And then, she remembered a hazy memory: she recalled the sensation of a delicate hand wrapped around hers. Wet tears falling against her neck. A woman, who smelled of roses and sandalwood, and whispers laced with pain.

Hermione took the plunge; she pulled on Narcissa's hand and brought it to her chest, then held it there, above her throbbing heart. The scent of roses and sandalwood had become strong. Narcissa was a breath away now. Hermione stared at her eyes; they were blue oceans instead of silver daggers. "You stayed with Lucius," she whispered, "and you didn't leave your parents, because you didn't want to hurt them. Not because you were a coward. You stayed because you cared too much."

Nervous, Narcissa gulped. She stared silently back at Hermione. Then, she shook her head from side to side and tried to frantically untangle her hand from Hermione's.

But Hermione would not let go.

Narcissa's lips quivered. "Leave me be," she whispered.

" _No_ ," answered Hermione.

" _No_... You don't know me," she countered.

" _No_... I think I do," Hermione rebutted.

The beautiful, secretive witch closed her eyes.

"Open your eyes," murmured Hermione. "You can't hide from me."

A shimmering tear fell down Narcissa's ivory skin.

So, Hermione moved her free hand to the woman's cheek, and flicked the tear away with her thumb. And suddenly, another fragment of the memory was brought to her consciousness: _"...When my tears fell on your wound, it somehow began to heal…"_ Narcissa had whispered. _"However, it cannot be me. No. I shall not allow it. If there are gods, they are wrong."_ She had then sniffled. _"You must know that it is best for you this way... For I am heartless and cold and undeserving…"_

Hermione smirked as this fragment of the memory played before her mind's eyes. _"Narcissa?"_ she whispered. "Open your eyes… or I'm afraid I'll kiss you."

Narcissa let out a soft gasp; her delicate hand trembled in her grasp, while her beguiling eyes fluttered open.

And they were terribly blue.

Hermione couldn't help but drown in her oceans. " _Narcissa?"_ she whispered again. "You will trust me even less after this," she divulged. She put her free hand around the complicated and stubborn woman's waist, then pulled her to herself.

Narcissa's black pupils dilated. Her lips parted. She was like a flame; Hermione could feel her warmth.

A beat.

" _Hermione_ ," whispered Narcissa. " _Don't_ —"

Hermione inched closer. " _Shhh._ Too late," she breathed against Narcissa's lips.

And then, she slowly, very slowly touched her fleshy lips with hers.

 _"_ No _…_ " she moaned, while sighing softly against them.

" _No_ ," Hermione echoed back. Narcissa was under her spell. She let her tongue lightly move across her pearly teeth before pulling her face away for a moment. "Let me in," she whispered, demanded.

For a second, she wondered if Narcissa would oblige.

And then, to her surprise, she did.

Bewitched, Narcissa's eyes rolled back, as she unclenched her teeth and let her in.

They explored each other for as long as they could hold their breaths.

And when they had become breathless, they rested their foreheads against each other.

Hermione still held Narcissa's soft, smooth hand tightly against her heart, forcing her to feel each pound, each ache. The world around them had fallen away; lost in the scent of roses and sandalwood, Hermione wished the moment could last forever.

But, of course, nothing lasts forever.

" _No_ ," Narcissa whimpered again, fading out of Hermione's spell. At this, Hermione's heart dropped. She sensed barriers reforming. She could feel wet lashes against her cheek; hot tears were flowing down from Narcissa's eyes.

Hermione frowned and let go of the witch's hand. She slowly tucked a wayward tuft of her blonde hair behind her ear, and stared into her glimmering eyes. She had been crying. She remembered something else: _"I don't know why… but you frighten me,"_ Narcissa had whispered while soaked in her blood.

She gently kissed a streak of tears. "Be cool and heartless, Narcissa," whispered Hermione next to her ear. Narcissa's breath hitched. "If you wish, _hurt me_. But, _don't_ decide for me…" said Hermione firmly but tenderly. Then, she paused and smirked by Narcissa's cheek before pulling her head back, and staring down at her glowing eyes. Pining yet hesitant, they were shifting from blue to silver to blue to silver…

"And what if I can be cool and heartless too. _Hmm_?" Hermione then murmured. She laid a gentle peck against her lips.

" _Hermione_ …" Narcissa breathed out her name; a hand reached out, and clasped the cloth above Hermione's chest.

Instead of obliging, Hermione untangled her lean hand from her blouse, and silently turned away from her. Narcissa just as silently watched Hermione leave, while holding the hand that had been untangled to her breast. Flustered, fearful and wanting, she was softly trembling from her inner chaos.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

So, finally... you read the moment you have probably been waiting for: The First Kiss.

Did it live up to your expectation?

And... poor, stubborn Narcissa. It seems she has met someone as stubborn as her. :(

As always, thank you for your reviews. They really help me become more creative!


	15. Chapter 14: Little Sisters

**Chapter 14: Little Sisters and First Movements**

* * *

 _"You know what the great thing about babies is?_

 _They are like little bundles of hope._

 _Like the future in a basket."_

~ _Hold Me Closer, Necromancer_

* * *

A window unlatched, and a cold gale making a shrill noise swept into the chamber, blowing out the fire in the hearth. Narcissa started out of her sleep, panting; but her fright had not been caused by the window's opening. In fact, she was grateful for it, as it had awoken her from a most terrifying nightmare. Swathed with cold sweat, she placed the soles of her feet against the wooden ground, and shivered from its coolness—shivered from recalling her dream; she had seen her little boy dying in her arms… over and over again. And, each time, she had not been able to stop him from slipping away.

Ever since Hermione's extempore kiss, Narcissa was being haunted even more by memories of his death. The trembling witch rose and seized her robe, wrapping it tightly against herself, drawing from it all the warmth she could before ambling towards the open window.

When she closed it, she sighed, as if the exertion had taken great effort.

 _Damn_ Hermione, she then thought in her head. _Damn_ her for being the bearer of havoc, for making everything terribly confusing and unnerving (for making her heart _un_ -numbed). What had made Hermione— _that foolish, quixotic witch_ —think that _she_ could possibly understand _her_?

 _The audacity… !_

Her jaws tightened, and she would have flung more curses at Hermione, but she was suddenly interrupted; her eyes expanded while her brows furrowed. There was a fluttering sensation deep within her womb. It felt like butterflies gently flapping their wings against the walls of her abdomen. She realized she had felt it before, uncertain as to when (delusional, she knew it was when she had been kissed), but she had thought nothing of it then.

Slowly, she placed a shaking hand against the small bump, all of the sudden, noticing it had grown. Her entire hand could not cover it anymore.

Narcissa lifted her gaze from her abdomen to the window; she could see the first snowfall of the year. The grounds had been rendered into a sparkling white blanket. It was December. Yule was around the corner. Fresh beginnings (she wondered if she could ever have fresh beginnings). Narcissa began to count time, and soon understood she was now eighteen weeks along. Four and a half months had passed by. In about five months, in her arms, she would be holding her daughter.

Narcissa thought of Draco dying in her arms.

And trembled.

She was certain everything she loved was destined to wilt, which is why she feared loving her daughter, feared loving _Herm…_

 _Nevermind._

She felt the fluttering again. Gentle and soft and loving… reassuring her that it needed her love, that it wanted to be loved, and wanted to love her.

A small tear fell down her cheek, gone unnoticed.

Narcissa suddenly started to panic; her heart was pounding loudly. She began to pant. She couldn't breathe, so she opened the window she had just closed, and let the cold gale glide past her perspiring skin.

She inhaled.

This was real.

 _Breathe._

She was going to have a baby.

(She forgot to breathe).

With Hermione.

Narcissa gasped for air. There was a crazed look in her exquisite, pale eyes; she appeared as if she had _never_ _truly_ considered the repercussions of having a child with Hermione before. Cold water poured down on her. She understood there was no escaping: Hermione would be in her life now. _Always_. How would she hide from her? She couldn't bear it if those maddening ( _beautiful_ ) brown eyes of her wandered through her innermost self… (as if she was something that could be wandered through!).

Did Hermione not realize her walls were there for a reason?

She needed them, so she would not need anyone.

They made her strong.

But if they made her strong, why did she feel so weak right now? (And why had she felt compelled to kiss her back? How could _she_ , viewed by many as the Queen of Slytherins, desire self-destruction over self-preservation?).

Perhaps, she had been hiding for too long, she thought. And carrying her soul all to herself for this long had become a secret impatiently waiting to be told. But, she started to worry… what if her soul was not… lovable? (Not that she thought she needed to be loved, for she felt she was too proud for love). Her heart was most certainly tainted. She was quite positive. How could it not be with all the darkness and wickedness she had witnessed?… _If thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee…_

And it had stared back at her.

She remembered Draco dying in her arms.

Her love was toxic.

Narcissa was sure she was better off not being in love at all (little did the witch realize, she had just admitted to being in love; she foolishly believed love was something she could control: something one could smother and crush and forget… as if love was not stubborn and undaunted).

When she had regained some equanimity, she lit the hearth with her wand, and being awfully exhausted, returned to her bed. But fortunately, this time when sleep came to her, she dreamt of soft limbs entangled, and gentle whispers under bedsheets… (these were also the sort of dreams that visited her more often these days).

The next afternoon, there was a knock on her door. Narcissa groaned softly as she awoke from the sound, unused to being disturbed. One of the few gifts of living entirely alone in her ancestral manor was untroubled sleep (that is, when her mind decided to be hushed).

"Wake up, darling! It's me," she heard a female voice, "your most favourite person in the entire world."

Narcissa groaned again, now knowing who the intruder was. She grabbed her robe swiftly off the chair by the antiquated davenport and marched angrily towards the door. She hauled it open.

Andromeda smiled. Then, her eyes travelled to Narcissa's waist; the silhouette of the growing bump could be seen properly in her thin, silken nightgown. Narcissa noticed where her sister's attention had travelled, and sighed melancholically. "I shall be looking horrid in a few months."

"No," said Andromeda with a snide smirk and her head tilted up; she walked into the chamber proudly. She was a Black, after all… despite not being a proper one (then again, thought Narcissa: Andromeda, Sirius, Regulus… and even her, none of them had been proper ones; maybe Blacks were meant to be rebels, after all, thought Narcissa; or maybe, her generation had been a let down…). "You shan't be looking horrid, for you were born looking horrid," finished Andromeda.

At this, Narcissa chuckled; her teasing sister had lightened her mood.

" _Gods_ ," complained Andromeda, whose eyes were inspecting her surroundings. "Your chamber looks like Slytherin Dungeon. It's _so_ dark in here." She quickly scurried towards the windows, and pulled the curtains wide open. Then, she unlatched the window. "Some fresh air," she explained, as she breathed in the crisp air that swept into the room.

Meanwhile, Narcissa was squinting her eyes at the incoming bright light. She had covered them with her palms, groaning again; her mood had dampened once more.

Andromeda turned around from the window, and rolled her eyes at her melodramatic sister. "Must you always be so _angst-filled?"_ she asked. "Come on, don't sulk — it's unbecoming. You're reminding me of our late friend, Severus."

Narcissa's hands dropped to her side. "And you're reminding me of _Maman_ ," she countered. She was blinking rapidly, as her vision was adjusting to the light. When it had, she pursed her lips, furious. "Why are you here?" she asked.

"Why _shouldn't_ I be here?" Andromeda challenged. "I know you don't have other engagements. From what I recall, you're unemployed, and the most affluent socialite in Wizarding England. You have all the time and money in the world to waste."

Narcissa tightened the ropes of her robe around her waist, as she went to the windows where Andromeda was standing. She closed the window and pulled together the curtains again. Once content with the ambience in her chamber, she replied,"Unemployed and the most affluent, perhaps. But, I don't consider myself a … socialite; it has been quite some time since I have _socialized…_ " The stressed word left a sour taste in her mouth.

Andromeda huffed, while pulling the curtains open again and reopening the window. Narcissa grumbled behind her, muttering profanities; Andromeda found it quite unlike her. "While I know you've been enjoying your self-enforced isolation from high society, you've paid no mind to my company… until now." Andromeda turned to face her sister, who was standing behind her. "And you never curse... So, tell me— what's the bloody matter with you?"

With her arms folded around her arm like a petulant and spoiled child, Narcissa turned her face away from Andromeda. "Stop interrogating me," she said darkly. "I am not a child."

"Stop interrogating you—or what?" answered Andromeda, amused yet annoyed.

Narcissa remained mute, as she walked towards her bed and plopped down. She sat there very still, and started gawking at the marble ground.

"You'll ignore me? Fine. _Do so,"_ said Andromeda. "But ignore me whilst we shop." She walked towards Narcissa's closet and rummaged through all her couture clothing until she found the loosest gown she could. She tossed it at her sister's face. Narcissa flinched. "You'll be needing some new clothes. The ones you have now won't be fitting you soon."

"I wish we never reconciled," grumbled Narcissa.

Andromeda snorted. "Wear your clothes!" she ordered, ignoring her cranky sister's remark, having blamed it on her hormones; and, she was also quite certain her sister had been rendered into an angst-filled adolescent by something that had occurred the night she had made Hermione follow her. She shook her head while Narcissa changed begrudgingly into her frock. Why did her sister always have to make things so complicated for herself? Surely, she was not _truly_ an imbecile; she had been the greatest witch of her generation.

Narcissa soon looked at her with her tired, grey eyes. She had finished changing into her dress. "Will … any of your friends be coming?" she asked slowly.

Andromeda knew she was referring to one friend in particular: Hermione. "No," she answered.

Silver eyes vacillated between relief and disappointment. Andromeda shook her head again; Narcissa was a genius; sure, she could believe that. But she was an absolute moron when it came to comprehending her emotions. "Ready? Shall we go?" she then asked.

"If you were to grant me my will, _no._ I wouldn't," whispered Narcissa, as if she were being held hostage.

"Stop sulking," she scolded.

Pale brows furrowed. "Will you stop telling me what to do?" Narcissa hissed.

Andromeda huffed, exasperated. Her eyes darkened. _Little shit…_ Little sisters would always be little sisters. She grabbed her by her wrist and pulled her out of the chamber.

"Must you be such a brute?" lamented Narcissa theatrically as she rubbed her wrist, while following her down to the drawing room.

"Wear your coat," she replied, ignoring her petulance once more.

* * *

"Kingsley was bloody annoying today," said Harry.

"Yes," said Hermione, nodding slowly. They were sitting at a cafe in Diagon Alley. Through the windows, Hermione watched the snowfall. The streets were glimmering white. "But I suppose I deserved it. I was gone for some time," she whispered. When she had returned to work, Kingsley had been enraged while he had asked about her whereabouts; but she hadn't really listened to his censure, as she had been contemplating over how she hadn't ever liked her job. She had decided to work in the same field as Harry and Ron upon graduation; however, her first choice had been to work as an Unspeakable at the Department of Mysteries. McGonagall had said she had the talent and skill, and she thought she would have loved it too. But, seeing how they were the Golden Trio, and _inseparable,_ she had decided to follow whatever Ron and Harry were doing. And now, well they weren't a trio anymore, and they weren't so inseparable anymore either. Her job had suddenly begun to seem less alluring…

She sighed, and thought of azure eyes; she wished she could stop thinking about them so often. But, one often desires their destruction. "I suppose Ron told you," she finally blurted out the elephant in the room. Hermione knew this had been the reason as to why Harry had asked her if they could grab a coffee.

Her friend frowned. He sipped on his coffee. Emerald eyes sparkled sorrowfully. She knew he had been hurt the most; her and Ron were his closest friends, his strength during his most turbulent years, and now they deplored each other. It was almost as if Harry was their child. What would they do with him now?

"I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered sincerely.

Harry nodded for a moment while staring idly into his coffee. Then, he lifted his face and smiled warmly, having gathered himself. "You don't need to apologize, 'Mione," he said. "I should be the one apologizing—I had no idea you were in a difficult situation. I'm your friend. I should have known something was wrong."

He was always such a sweetheart; Hermione placed her hand on his. "I didn't want to tell anyone. It's not your fault," she consoled.

He nodded and sighed. His sigh had been too heavy for his age. They were only in their twenties, but they had grown so much, and too quickly. They had to. She watched him as he gazed at the fresh snow. "So, how long?" he whispered.

She lifted a brow. "How long what?"

"How long until… the baby is born?" he asked.

" _Oh_ ," whispered Hermione, so he knew about that too. Hermione had wished Ron had only mentioned their falling out, and not the whys and hows. Did Mrs. Weasley know? And what about Ginny? Hermione felt violated. "The baby. I—I think we'll be seeing her sometime in spring."

Harry nodded. "You know—she saved my life," he whispered; Hermione knew he was referring to Narcissa. "We wouldn't have won the war without her. She's not so bad," he rambled, while reconstructing his view of her. "I want to meet her again… I mean. I know that sounds odd, but you see… " Harry trailed off, "she's probably going to be in my life more often… since I'm the uncle. So, it would be good to break the ice." He paused (while Hermione thought of how he could accomplish breaking the ice when she was still unsure if she had… and she was the mother of the child). "Or at least, I hope I am the unc—" He began, mistaking her contemplation for reproach.

"Of course you are Harry!" exclaimed Hermione. Exclaiming had been exhausting, but she had to seem enthused, lest he receive the wrong message. "What sort of question is that?"

Harry nodded again. They sat very still in the awkwardness.

"Does Ginny know… and Ron's parents?" she then asked.

He nodded again. "Yeah. You know how Ron is… can't keep his mouth shut."

"Mhmm," she whispered, while nodding, and thinking of how they were nodding too much. Why did people nod more than necessary when they felt uncomfortable? To fill the silence, she supposed. And why was she thinking about the oddest things? Maybe, she felt bored? Hermione hoped they could move through the dreary conversation more swiftly, and just get it out of the way. She sighed.

"I'm sorry," said Harry; he had thought she had sighed because she was despondent over her estrangement from Ron. Hermione frowned; how little did he know about how careless and cold she could be at times. She wished he would stop putting her on a pedestal; the conversation would be easier that way. He was far too nice. "But, you know… The Weasleys still love you," said Harry. "It's just Ron who has gone a little bonkers. He's being a git."

 _I've gone bonkers too…_

Hermione wondered if Narcissa had ever been kissed like that, then smiled. "That's good to hear," she murmured, while wondering if they would still love her if they were to unearth her love for Narcissa.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Hermione and Ron, two beautiful witches entered the cafe: a brunette and a blonde. They had decided to eat before their shopping spree; well, truth be told, the brunette had made the decision. The blonde looked disinterested. They decided to sit in a corner in the back, where they could have a view of their surroundings, while not being viewed themselves. One couldn't blame them for their need to hide, as they were often objects of attention.

* * *

"You must eat. You're eating for two now," chided Andromeda, while shaking her head. Narcissa was holding the menu, but she was not looking at it. Instead, she was looking somewhere else, somewhere distant and faraway, but it appeared as if she were gazing at the empty table behind Andromeda. With an elbow placed on the table, the usually well postured witch had her chin supported by her hand.

Andromeda sighed. It was pretty clear that Narcissa was lovestruck. She was reminded of their adolescent years in Hogwarts. Her sister was often rendered into a mute mule when in the first throes of love. A waitress came, interrupting her stream of thought. "What will you be having?" the girl asked. She looked a little intimidated; Andromeda supposed her resemblance to Bellatrix, and Narcissa being … well Narcissa often had that sort of influence on others. She picked the crepe for her sister, knowing it was her favourite. "I'll have the scrambled eggs," she said. The girl nodded, quickly scuttling away.

When she returned her attention to Narcissa, she noticed the menu had fallen from her grasp, and her pale eyes had widened. Her head was not supported by her hand anymore. She was no longer quietly contemplative; she was breathing more rapidly than usual. "Narcissa?" she asked. Andromeda, confused and worried, turned her gaze to where Narcissa's was planted, and there she found her friend, Hermione sitting with Harry.

 _I see_.

Andromeda smirked.

Love could be so frightening; she recalled when she had fallen in love with Ted, and how terrified she had been. He had been a muggleborn, and she had been a pureblood from one of the most notorious and bigoted families in Wizarding England. Two worlds that should have never collided. For the longest time, she would not admit she was in love with him to herself. At first, she thought she had hated him (the line between love and hate is often thin, after all). From rival houses, they would prank each other in their shared classes. She recalled how he had once put a frog in her cauldron; she had retaliated by casting the Jelly Bean Jinx on him whilst he was doing his O.W.L; he had failed it, of course. She had been quite glad. Andromeda chuckled. Oh, she had been terrible once. It was hard to believe now how terrible she had been. Then, after he had failed his O.W.L, he had come to her, enraged and furious and she had found herself falling…

And then, they had kissed.

Love could be so senseless and irrational. It often was. Why couldn't Narcissa understand that? wondered Andromeda.

"Narcissa?" she whispered. She noticed her sister's hand on the table, and placed her hand upon it. At the touch, her sister's gaze slowly travelled towards her. Andromeda had finally pulled her out of her mind. "You're looking at her," she said.

Narcissa blushed. Her gaze flickered away to her plate.

"You love Hermione," she stated bluntly.

The rosy tint on her sister's ivory skin deepened. Narcissa swiftly flashed her silver eyes at her. She hadn't expected such brusqueness from Andromeda. "You're being ridiculous," she reprimanded.

Andromeda smirked. "Then, why are you blushing like a schoolgirl?"

Narcissa scowled.

Then, their food came at the most inopportune time; Narcissa was grateful for the interruption, while Andromeda was irritated by it. "Thank you," said Andromeda hastily to the girl. The waitress nodded, smiling. She stood there for a bit too long. Andromeda mentally groaned. She returned a smile. It had been too wide. "Yes. Well. Would you mind… going now?' she asked; it was impolite of her, but she had been impolite for most of her life. It was only with Ted that she had learned to check her arrogance.

The girl scurried away. _Poor thing._

Narcissa chuckled and shook her head. "So cruel."

Andromeda shrugged. "Old habits…" Then, she returned to the pressing matter of Narcissa's languishing heart. "What are you going to do about it?' she asked.

Narcissa sliced her crepe, and put the portion into her mouth. Meanwhile, Andromeda knew she was being tactical. C _onniving Slytherin._ Her sister was stalling, hoping she wouldn't have to respond if she filled her mouth. She took a long time to chew. When she was done, she was about to make another slice, but Andromeda incanted a charm wordlessly with her wand, and the cutlery suddenly flew out of Narcissa's hand, and fell with a clang onto her own plate.

"There are two Slytherins here," said Andromeda.

Narcissa furrowed her brows, and grimaced.

"You love her, Cissy," she then whispered softly.

Her sister sighed involuntarily, and stole a glimpse of Hermione; she hung a lock of her silvery blonde hair behind her ear. "I don't know, 'Meda," she murmured. Her eyes were downturned, revealing her bewilderment. "How would I know?"

Andromeda handed Narcissa her fork and knife. Her sister still bore dark circles under her eyes. "Have you been sleeping well, Cissy?" she asked.

Narcissa shrugged while cutting her crepe again. "I usually don't," she said wearily before chewing.

Andromeda frowned. "How often do you think of her?" she inquired.

Narcissa was still chewing; she blushed.

Andromeda smirked. "Have you thought of her… _sensually_?"

Her sister's face turned tremendously red. She held a fist to her chest, as she had started to cough on her food.

"I see," said Andromeda.

When Narcissa had regained her composure, she knitted her brows. "What do you mean, ' _I_ _see'_?" she said, peeved. "I haven't said anything."

Andromeda smirked, and Narcissa wished she could wipe the smirk off her bloody face. "You didn't have to, Cissy," she explained.

Defeated, Narcissa's shoulders slackened. "Is it so obvious, 'Meda?" she whispered sadly, while looking like she was sinking into her chair.

She watched her sister nod slowly. "Yes, Cissy."

Silence transpired for a moment.

"Look at how I'm sitting," said Narcissa, shattering the unnerving quiet with absurdity. If their mother had been here, Narcissa would have been scolded for her posture. They both eyed each other, and thought of what their mother would have said. Andromeda suddenly chuckled; she decided to impersonate Druella. She lifted her chin and one brow; then, she spoke in a French accent, "Back straight, you _stupide_ girl!"

Narcissa laughed heartily. Andromeda joined in. " _Mon dieu_ … _Maman_ could be terribly annoying," she replied in French while smiling.

Andromeda chuckled. " _Oui. Très,"_ she agreed; delighted from the rare smile on her little sister's face, she too smiled. It had been so long since they had spoken to each other in their mother's tongue. It felt very much like old times.

"Bella would have hushed us for our ' _insolence_ '," whispered Narcissa. "' _Insolence'..._ she adored that word..." Her voice trailed off. They both turned pensive. Bellatrix. The missing piece. She was gone, but she had been absent for quite a long time. Their mourning for her had not started with her death. The mood turned dark again. They realized that old times were… old times. One could never reclaim them.

"So much has changed," murmured Narcissa, frowning. "I never imagined we would be where we are now during my years in Hogwarts…" The witch then wistfully gazed at Hermione again. "I thought I would be with Lucius until either I died or he died… never did I imagine that my own child would die befo—"

"Shh, Narcissa," whispered Andromeda. "Our children died with pride and dignity. They died for a cause they believed in. We should be proud of them." She couldn't believe in her words herself; dying for a cause wasn't something Andromeda could understand. Staying alive was always the better alternative.

Narcissa shook her head while sighing. "I don't know, 'Meda. I would still rather have them alive. "

"I know, Cissy." The crepe on her sister's plate was getting cold.

"I tried to die in the Great Hall…after he… " whispered Narcissa, as she thought of the dream she had had earlier today. "I was holding my wand to my chest, about to cast the Killing Curse…"

Andromeda frowned, but did not find herself alarmed by the revelation.

"She stopped me from dying," Narcissa said softly.

"Who?"

Her sister looked at Hermione. "She removed my wand from my hold." She bit on her lips, and her eyes began to glimmer. "I wish she hadn't… I would have been better off dead—"

Andromeda's grimace grew, as she had been made to think of her sister in a casket. "Don't say that, Cissy," she replied. "I love you, and I don't want to imagine you dead."

Narcissa exhaled. "But, it's how I feel, 'Meda. It's the truth."

Andromeda shook her head. "Cissy. You now have a reason to live, and you must find the courage to." She paused. "You came to me that night and wept in my arms, afraid that your unborn daughter was dying. You desperately wanted her to live."

Narcissa recalled the horrid day and almost shivered from the memory. Her hand fell inadvertently against her abdomen, and her fingers protectively sprawled across the bump, as if to reassure herself that her child was still there, still alive, still well…

"Your daughter would want you alive, Cissy," continued Andromeda. "And there are others here as well who love you, who wouldn't be able to bear it if you died… Me, for instance. And Hermione."

At the utterance of Hermione's name, Narcissa's heart began to beat rapidly. She then felt the fluttering in her womb again. It was almost as though her daughter was asking her if she was well. She wondered if her little girl could sense her heavy heartbeat; yesterday night, she had felt her when she had been panicking.

Narcissa then nodded slowly and sighed, while gently rubbing her thumb against her abdomen to soothe the fluttering. _I'm fine,_ she mentally whispered to her child. _Really, I am._ But, she knew she was lying. So, she promised: _I will try to be fine for you, love._

The fluttering stopped, as if her daughter had been eased by her promise.

Andromeda had watched her sister silently and knowingly.

"Cissy. Was she moving?... " she asked when Narcissa had removed her hand from her belly, and had returned to eating her food, realizing that she had to eat for someone else.

Narcissa nodded, and revealed one of her rare smiles again. Her eyes had turned blue. And then, when she thought Andromeda was eating her food, she gazed at Hermione, and recalled the vision she had seen of her little girl running in her manor's garden with hair platinum like hers and untamed like Hermione's.

 _Ah, motherhood,_ thought Andromeda, as she secretly watched her little sister gaze dreamily at Hermione. She sipped on her coffee and smirked behind the mug. _It forces you to love._

The door to the cafe sprung open and aurors dressed in red robes rushed in, grabbing their attention. Narcissa wondered if they had come for her; she had become used to receiving their uninvited visitations during her life with Lucius. For her, they were always a sore sight. Andromeda noticed the fright in her sister's expanded eyes, so she wrapped her hand around her wrist. "They're not here for you, Cissy," she whispered.

Of course, they weren't. She hadn't done anything. For a second, she relaxed until she realized they were walking towards Hermione. Perhaps, they had to discuss something with her, she thought, remembering how the witch was working in the Department of Defence.

But, if that was the case, why were they holding handcuffs?

Then, she heard words that made her head spin:

"You're under arrest," said an Auror to Hermione.

Without thought, she pulled Andromeda's hand away from her wrist. Senseless and overcome with adrenaline, Narcissa stood up, while clenching her wand so firmly in her hand that her knuckles had turned white.

Suddenly, a hand curled around her wrist, and grasped it hard. She was tugged backwards, and was forced to sit down again.

" _Cissy_. _Don't be brash,_ " she heard a voice hiss. "Do you wish to be taken by them too?"

" _Do refrain from being a brash Gryffindor,"_ she had told Hermione when she had foolishly been about to jinx a man who had cursed at her on the street; had their feelings towards one another started then?... When had it began? wondered Narcissa. Perhaps, it had been on the very first day in that cobbled alleyway, when she had been running after her?... She recalled being pulled to her chest, recalled her frantic gaze peering into her eyes for too long, touching her very core…

"Cissy?" said Andromeda angrily. "Are you listening to me?"

Narcissa realized she was looking at Andromeda. She wanted to get up again and was about to when: " _Immobulus,"_ she heard a whisper. She tried to rise once more, but couldn't move. Confused for a moment, as her mind was in a haze, she wondered why, and then realized something was jabbing into her leg. Her sister was holding her wand at her under the table.

When the Aurors had left, she felt the spell thaw away and could move her limbs again. Her heart was beating furiously. Narcissa felt butterflies in her womb once more. Slowly, she placed a trembling hand against her abdomen, while wondering if Hermione would be all right.

If _they_ would be all right

Andromeda whispered, "Shall we go to my place? Stay with me tonight?" She stood up and grabbed Narcissa's hand. "Come," she said while pulling her up.

Then, when night came, Andromeda heard a knock upon her door. "Come in, Cissy," she whispered.

Her little sister walked in wearing her pyjamas. She was reminded of nights long ago. Andromeda pulled her blanket down and let her sister join her in her bed. Then, she drew the blanket over her, and brought her near her chest, tucking her blonde head under her chin. She wrapped an arm around her waist.

"I cannot sleep, 'Meda," murmured Narcissa. She sighed wearily. "And she won't either... I feel her moving incessantly."

Andromeda gently stroked her sister's belly. "Sleep little one," she whispered.

They stayed quiet for a very long time, and listened to the gelid, moaning wind outside. She thought Narcissa had slept, but then:

"'Meda?" she heard her murmur.

"Yes, Cissy?" she whispered back.

"I am sorry for earlier today. I did not mean what I said, 'Meda… about wishing we hadn't reconciled."

"I know, Cissy," said Andromeda. She held her sister more snugly.

A few moments passed by. She had thought Narcissa was asleep once more, but then she heard her whisper: "I love you."

"I love you too," she answered.

"... I think she loves you as well," murmured Narcissa. "She has quieted down."

Andromeda smiled. "I love you too, little one," she said tiredly, while gently stroking her sister's belly again.

"'Meda?" said Narcissa.

"Hmm…" _Merlin_. _Sleep, Cissy._

"Am I irritating you?"

"A little bit…"

Narcissa sighed. "... May I say one more thing?'

"Go ahead."

"I believe…" she paused, hesitant. "I think…"

"You think what?..." she said, already knowing what Narcissa was going to say.

"I - I think I love Hermione," whispered Narcissa. She then sighed. "It's terrible… being in love."

"I know, Cissy." She yawned.

Narcissa echoed back a soft yawn. "Of course, you do..."

"Sleep now, Cissy."

A pause.

"... Will Hermione be all right?" she whispered.

"We'll do everything we can…"

 _"Promets moi?"_

She kissed her head. _"Oui, je promets... ma petit soeur,"_ she murmured _._ "Sleep now."

" _Bonne nuit..."_

Andromeda shortly found her sleeping; her chest was rising and falling smoothly. Terribly tired from today's ordeal, she had fallen fast asleep in her older sister's arms.

They were not the same people anymore. Everything had changed, but the love they had for each other had remained and endured. _Little sisters…_ they could be little shits sometimes, but they were still wonderful to have around. She had missed her so. Andromeda held her more tightly, while recalling her as a pink little thing in a cot. She sighed softly into her blonde hair, hoping all her wishes would come true.

* * *

 **Author's Note**

I thought it was time for some sisterly love. Thank you Andromeda for drilling some sense into Narcissa's head.

Thoughts?

As always, THANK YOU for your reviews! They are really encouraging, and they give me the energy to continue. Having written something feels wonderful, but writing something is horrible! So, your reviews and feedback mean a lot, as they give me the energy to persist.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	16. Chapter 15: Most Sensitive Misfortunes

**Chapter 15: Most Sensitive Misfortunes of Life**

* * *

 _L'amour fait les plus grandes douceurs_

 _et les plus sensibles infortunes de la vie._

Love makes the greatest pleasures

and most sensitive misfortunes of life.

~ Madeleine de Scudery

* * *

She was engulfed in cold air. Her throat was parched and dry. The cell was damp and wet. Darkness permeated every corner. Fortunately, Shacklebolt had disbanded the use of dementors as guards; nonetheless, a prison was still a place poisoned by despair. Left alone in one's thoughts, and with the question of whether there would be any escape from cold, stony four walls, a cell would always be the home of sorrow; dementors were a profligacy. The truth was one could still fashion a prison as a place where happiness could be siphoned without their presence.

Hermione searched for beauty, as prisoners are wont to do. The only forms of beauty she could find in her surroundings were the thin light peering down from a small, barred window of a wall, and the memories of Narcissa, of her soft lips and her contradictory scent: dark and light. Her sandalwood and roses. Hermione wrapped herself tighter in a thin blanket she had wrapped herself around, while wondering if she would ever be freed, if she would ever see Narcissa, ever kiss her again...

If she could ever see the light again.

The light peering in from the window was a tease, a revelation of the limitations imposed on her freedom. Hermione suddenly despised it; she turned her gaze away from the wet floor, which was shimmering from the sun-ray, and looked at the guards marching in the corridor to her left. One of them stopped and nodded at her direction. No one in Wizarding England wanted her here, except for the law.

"Any news?" croaked Hermione from where she sat, a thin, worn mattress on a metal bed.

The guard, a female Auror named Marietta, frowned. "Not much has changed - everyone is still furious at your imprisonment."

Hermione frowned. "Well... That's good to hear." What Marietta had said didn't mean much in terms of whether she would be freed from this purgatory.

The guard frowned. "Yes, but you still destroyed governmental documents… and the law states..."

"I know, Marietta," answered Hermione.

The guard sighed. "Sorry."

Hermione was too morose and apathetic to respond. A sorry would not do. After all she had done for the Wizarding World, she would be imprisoned for twenty five years in prison for destroying a document on an abortion. At the absurdity of it all, she chuckled heartily. Life was a horrific jest - or perhaps hers was. Oh, how the gods loved to toy with her fate: A Muggle born with magic. A weakling who had somehow found the courage to kill the darkest wizard in Wizarding history… And then, she had married her best friend, a seemingly happy ending. But, it had been a deception - she had fallen off that path. Fate had taken her elsewhere on her journey: she, a Gryffindor, a Muggleborn, had fallen for a beautiful Slytherin, a witch from the most nefarious, bigoted pureblood family of England … a brilliant, twisted ending had almost been within reach.

But, a life with Narcissa and a little girl of their own was an ending that most likely was going to be destroyed as well; it appeared she was going to be in prison for most of her life. Twenty five years was the penalty for the destruction, alteration or falsification of records in governmental investigations.

How splendid.

A better twist, Hermione supposed. Far more dramatic. The gods were good writers. She would give them that.

She chuckled again; it was wild, loud and… insane.

Like Bellatrix's.

Hermione frowned and moved her fingers across the scar on her arm: _Mudblood_ , it read. Through the years, she had begun to treasure the scar instead of despising it. Yes, she was a Muggleborn, and she was rather proud of it. She was a creature with feet in two worlds, with a mind that could see more than one reality. She no longer regarded it as a scar; now, it was her tattoo. And also, a reminder of what she had gone through, of her perseverance.

Perhaps, this too would pass.

 _I hope_.

She prayed it would, as her eyes closed from exhaustion and lassitude.

* * *

How could she still breathe?

Narcissa had thought the aforesaid thought when Draco had died. But, somehow she had still breathed. So, she had decided to take matters into her own hands: she had wanted to kill herself. And, the same thought occurred to her when an owl flew in and dropped _the Daily Prophet_ before her on the dining table, informing her that the witch she most likely loved would probably be confined inside a damp cell for twenty five long years. Twenty five long, dreary years…

The cup in her hand fell to the ground. Its shattering went unnoticed.

How was she still alive?

Narcissa's heart was pounding loudly, reminding her that she was still very much extant. Her breath had been stolen for just a moment. She wished it had been stolen forever, but guilt overcame when the fluttering began. But, how could she live… _Don't you understand?_ she asked the life in her womb.

"Cissy?" asked a worried voice.

Andromeda had watched her sister's face pale. Narcissa's trembling hands had now stilled. She was in a state of catatonia. Narcissa was immobile, save for her softly blinking eyes. Andromeda did not have to guess at what the news was; it most likely concerned Hermione's imprisonment. Instantly, she rose and sprung towards her.

"Cissy?" she repeated. "You're frightening me."

Narcissa did not realize her sister had wrapped her arms around her. She didn't realize she was being pulled away towards the drawing room. Her consciousness was lost, and yet she was awake. Everything around her had become a blur, and yet she could still see. Andromeda sat her down on a sofa and brushed her hair gently with her fingers.

"Cissy. Hermione will be all right. I promised you. I promise everything- "

And then, at the mention of Hermione's name, motion returned to her. Andromeda quickly seized Narcissa as she shattered, letting her break in her arms. She drew circles on her sister's back, hushing her and cooing at her as if she were a child. This formidable woman was still a girl; but, wasn't everyone in truth still a child?

The elder sister parented. "No one in the Wizarding World is content to let Hermione rot in a cell, Cissy. It won't happen… "

She was responded with hiccups and the erratic sound of her breathing. Andromeda let her sister weep in her arms for as long she desired, knowing she could not calm her - only exhaustion would. When Narcissa's tears had slowed, and her erratic breathing spasms had lessened in magnitude, Andromeda kissed her forehead, and whispered, "Cissy, speak…"

A moment of silence passed until: "I hate her," she heard Narcissa whimper.

It was such a petulant thing to say, and too unsophisticated to have been said by someone like Narcissa, but it had been. And Andromeda understood. "I hated Ted too when he died. I hated 'Dora as well when she died. Hated them for dying."

Narcissa sniffled, and fell into French: _"And, I hate myself for hating_ …"

" _Ma petite seour,"_ sighed Andromeda " _Y_ ou _mean to say… you hate yourself for loving?"_ asked Andromeda like a sage in French. " _At times, there isn't much of a difference between the two..."_

Silence transpired. Narcissa bit her lips. " _Love makes the greatest pleasures…"_ she whispered a French saying, but was too tired to say it completely.

" _... and most sensitive misfortunes of life,"_ Andromeda finished for her.

They sat like that: Narcissa was hidden in her elder sister's arms; her head was tucked under her chin, and set against her chest. She listened to her sister's rhythmic heartbeat, as she closed her eyes, and recalled her hand on Hermione's chest, untaming the woman's heartbeat.

She would do anything for that foolish witch.

And so, her higher mind suddenly took control; thoughts raced. The Slytherin in her awoken. Narcissa untangled herself from her sister's hold. Her eyes had turned icy. Her face was still wet, but it was clear that she had recollected herself. Her emotions were snubbed. Now, she was cool once more.

Narcissa sat still, pondering. Her face was utterly devoid of emotion. Andromeda watched her silver, pale eyes, and knew she was calculating.

"I shall be visiting Lucius," she finally spoke. Her voice had been laced with darkness, as if she were ready to kill.

"Why?" asked Andromeda, perplexed.

Pale brows furrowed while grey eyes gleamed from ire. "I am certain he did this," answered Narcissa.

Andromeda glared back in confusion. "How do you know -"

Her silver eyes had turned hard like metal. She stared back with fire dancing in her vision. "That… _fucker_ knows Hermione is the mother," she gnarled.

It was the second time Andromeda had ever heard her sister say 'fucker'; the only other time she had heard it was when their father had married her off to Lucius.

" _So, I shall be marrying that contemptible fucker?... How wonderful,"_ an adolescent and drunk Narcissa had whispered many years ago to her in a ball in which they had been viewing Lucius from afar.

Only, Narcissa was drunk from love this time… not alcohol.

* * *

Author's Note:

It's on the shorter end - for that I am sorry. But since, I'm sure some of you are impatiently awaiting for an update, I decided to post this, because I don't know when I'll be done the rest of it, as I have my exams coming up.

Hope you enjoyed it. I'm sure it answered some of your questions regarding Hermione's imprisonment. As always, your thoughts & reviews are much appreciated. They give me the vigor and strength to continue :).


	17. Chapter 16: Puzzles and Secretaries

**Chapter 16: Puzzles and Secretaries**

* * *

 _"And there is nothing more dangerous_

 _in this world,_ _in any world,_

 _than someone calm, clear and angry."_

 _~ Audrey Hart, The Dig_

* * *

Lucius Malfoy's character was lacking, but the amount of galleons he held in his vault made up for his poor personality in society. Yes, he was rather charming at first sight; but the charm was an enchantment. Anyone who knew him closely was aware that he was nothing more than a replica of his dear father, Abraxias Malfoy. All the Malfoys were very much the same. As much as the Blacks were varied, the Malfoys were identical. Narcissa had the unfortunate luck of marrying one of their flaxen headed bastards. And so, she had learned from Lucius what Lucius had learned from Abraxias: galleons talked, and with affluence came power. Two decades of marriage to him had taught her that Lucius was a fine friend to have and a terrible enemy to fight; Lucius' galleons, and the connections he had gained through them were his offences in warfare. Accordingly, Narcissa had questioned if Lucius was likely accountable for Hermione's imprisonment. If so, how was it that he had found out about the destruction of the document? She had wondered.

Who had told him?

Someone close to Hermione at her workplace. Someone who had given her the document to look through and sign, but had never retrieved it.

Someone like a secretary.

 _Secretaries_.

Narcissa's lips curled; she abhorred and pitied them. They adored Lucius, however, for they oftentimes adored galleons. Secretaries were usually poor wizards and witches with access to a wealthier and frequently more important individual's secrets. As such, they were easily bribed.

It had been some time since she had put her feet in the headquarters of the Ministry of Magic. Its pristine, marble floors and the portraits of sallow-eyed witches and wizards were a familiar and sorry sight to behold. She hated the place— the politics. Merlin knew how Hermione had withstood her job. Such a dreadful place to work in. Those before her instantly moved away from her. Thus, Narcissa moved forth unobstructed— heels tapping and all. She neared the information desk. A witch in her fifties sat there; this had been her job for most of her life. So, she took it seriously, naturally. Her life had been put into it. Presently, she was yelling at the younger worker by her side for not being efficient enough, a projection most likely of her bitterness towards what her life had amounted to. She wore a serious expression on her pudgy face.

"Excuse me," said Narcissa in her low and cool voice that was unmistakably hers, "perhaps if you weren't screaming, you would notice there is someone before you in need of your assistance."

The woman did not have to look at her to know it was her. The witch's eyes widened. "Ma'am!" she cried, and stood up. "Sorry." All her bravado waned in the blonde witch's presence.

Narcissa smiled at the young man. He blushed under her gaze. She felt sorry for underdogs; it was why she had stopped her fellow Slytherins from bullying Snape, and had presented his intellect as something that could prove to be of use to Lucius and his friends during her adolescence. "Now," she turned her attention back to the witch. "I am looking for someone. He or she most likely worked as a secretary for Ms. Hermione Granger. Or is it Weasley? Is her secretary still here?"

The woman gulped. "I'll let you know in a moment." The witch looked through some files and then nodded after a second. "Yes, she's here. Still working as a secretary for the interim minister of defence."

Narcissa nodded. Curious: "Who is the interim minister of defence?" she inquired.

"Mr. Ron Weasley," the trembling witch answered.

 _Ron Weasley?_ She cocked an elegant brow. "Thank you," she answered. As she turned around to head to her destination, she whispered Ron Weasley's name under her breath. If he had any dignity and pride, he would have refused the job for the love he once surely had for Hermione, but he hadn't. Why? Was he power hungry? No… A Weasley, power hungry? That was a ridiculous thought. But, first sights were deceptive, after all. An accomplished Legilimens, she had realized this through her life. Take Wormtail, for instance. A shy, nervous, and pitiable wreck. However, he too had wanted power. No one at first had realized that, of course. But, she had in her youth with her keen ability to perceive the inner depths of people; she had mentioned it to Bella passingly… and then Wormtail had been recruited. She wished she never had. So much would have been avoided.

Everything would have, really.

She entered the lift.

One utterance… and a boy's parents had died.

She internally shivered.

Why was she not imprisoned when she was more deserving of it? If she could trade shoes with Hermione, she would. A thousand times over. But, perhaps the gods had other means of torment in store for her… A life without her son. A life without... Hermione…

She had reached her destination. The bell in the lift rang. Her racing mind slowed, as she prepared herself for the forthcoming interrogation. She would unearth secrets. Something untoward was in the air; her intuition was never wrong. A Weasley working as a minister of defence. A disloyal secretary. And then, there was Lucius, who was surely taking part in all of this. He was always a key actor in such entanglements. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, determined to put the pieces of this puzzle together.

And she was rather good at completing puzzles. Sneaking past Ravenclaw's entrance during her formative years had been a breeze; she had stolen quite a few books from their library.

That was a misconduct she would never regret.

A young man passed by carrying coffee cups. "Where can I find the office of the minister of defence?" she asked him.

He stopped in his tracks and dithered, while she worried a cup would drop from his hands. The effect she had on others was such a nuisance; she hated it (but, of course, not all the time; it had its uses). Perhaps, a smile would calm his nerves. She showed him her pearly teeth. He stopped trembling under her gaze, and blushed instead. "Wasn't expecting to see you here. Sorry ma'am," he said in a small voice. "The office is right there," he continued, pointing at the end of the hall.

"Thank you," she replied.

Behind that door, the answers to her questions waited.

And once they were in her grasp, she could then perhaps find the means to free Hermione.

Narcissa pulled her fur coat tightly around herself and pressed her eyes shut for a moment. When they opened, they had turned into silver daggers. Ready, she marched like a queen towards the door with her frigid, cool eyes.

The secretary within the office, a ginger named Gertie, was sitting languidly by her desk, nearly asleep when suddenly her wrist was held within a slim, pale manicured hand. The hold around her wrist was strong. She yelped at the touch, as her eyes fluttered wide open. A beautiful, pale witch with burgundy lips, and platinum tresses was peering down at her. It did not take very long to realize who she was staring at.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" she asked. Her voice quivered.

"I prefer Black. And you?"

"Ge — Gertie," she stammered.

The hold against her wrist tightened. "Hello, Gertie," said Narcissa coolly, while smiling like a cheshire cat. "Did you speak to my estranged husband, Lucius about the document?"

"What? I don't know what you're—"

"Don't lie to me, girl," Narcissa hissed. The change in tones wreaked havoc on the girl's equanimity. She was a trembling mess. Grey eyes narrowed. "If you're lying, I shall find out." Narcissa removed her hand from the girl's wrist, and cupped her face with it, digging her crimson nails into the girl's skin. "Get up," she commanded. The secretary's lips quivered as she rose. "Tell me yourself or I shall peer into your mind, and your entire life will unfold before my eyes."

At this, Gertie gasped. "Mr. Weasley!" she cried for help.

"Don't waste your breath." Narcissa smirked. "I placed a silencing charm around us before I caught your attention, dove."

She gulped, succumbing. "Fine — I — I was promised I would be given galleons by Mr. Malfoy… your husband." She tried shaking her head, but Narcissa's grasp on her face was too strong for her to do so. "I didn't sleep with him. I promise I haven't." She sniffled and stammered, "Please — please don't look inside my mind."

She was lying, most likely. Narcissa crumpled her brows, whilst still cupping Gertie's lower face with fingers that Gertie felt were claws. "I don't care to hear of your sexual endeavours. _Get to the point."_

"He — he wanted to know if I had anything on Mrs. Weasley," she stammered. "I said yes - there was a document on an abortion that vanished." She frowned, sensing that her previous boss was most likely of some sentimental value to the witch before her; _the rich and their affairs,_ she thought. "I — I'm sorry. Mrs. Weasley is a very, very kind lady-"

 _Such rubbish._ Narcissa rolled her eyes. "Yet, not kind enough for you to refuse Lucius' offer, _hmm_?

The ginger secretary frowned. "I needed the galleons— I have a little boy who has a disability, and my ex, his father — he left us when he found out his son was disabled."

The coldness in Narcissa's gaze wavered for a split second.

"So, we — we don't have enough sometimes," Gertie continued. "My boy's disability requires money I can't afford without loans… and those goblins at Gringotts won't give me loans anymore… "

Narcissa sensed this was a truth, and let go of her face. Maternal instincts could not be overlooked (she blamed her condition. _Damn these hormones!_ ) "Then, why are you still working here if Lucius has given you galleons?" _Why does it matter? Really, Cissy? There's no time for this._ But, her traitorous heart had refused to listen to her intellect.

A tear escaped from the girl's eyes. "He didn't give me the money."

 _And he fucked you too._ Narcissa sighed and removed a pouch holding galleons from the pocket of her fur jacket. _Stupid girl._ She held the pouch above the desk, and emptied its contents there. Gold galleons fell before the young secretary's eyes; Narcissa then took the liberty to grab a file from her desk. The girl watched the gold galleons, mesmerized; there were about a hundred of them sparkling on the desk. Meanwhile, Narcissa scribbled a name and an address of a connection on top of the document with a quill. "Don't ever trust my ex-husband… or upscale wizards who promise you galleons in return for sex or information. And that name — she's a friend of mine. She'll find you a better job."

The girl nodded; her hazel, guilt-ridden eyes were bright with gratefulness. "Oh, ma'am. Thank you. I'm sorry…really, I would have never slept with him if I— "

In no mood for accepting gratitude and hearing apologies, Narcissa interrupted, "Tell me now. Have Mr. Weasley and Lucius ever met?"

"Ye — yes, Ms. Black," she nodded again. "Once. I have no idea as to what they might have discussed."

So, her intuition had been correct. Ron Weasley was involved in whatever this was as well. But, why? Wouldn't he want his wife back? Narcissa found herself alarmed. A frown emitted on her delicate features. Had he not loved her adequately? Or, had he simply lost his senses?

She hoped the case was the latter. Hermione's heart would break if she were to discover her childhood friend was of sound mind whilst wishing to see her behind bars.

"Is Mr. Weasley here right now?" she inquired. Her voice had been full of contempt.

"Mr. Weasley? Yes, he should be."

Narcissa's burgundy lips pressed into a thin line. "Tell him he has a visitor," she said in dark tones to the girl. Gertie was about to rise and enter his office when Narcissa placed her hand on her shoulder. "On second thought," she smiled, "don't. I wish to surprise him."

And she certainly did surprise Ron Weasley, who was sitting with his legs crossed on one of the leather sofas in the large office that had belonged to Hermione two weeks ago. He was smoking from a pipe, a new habit he had acquired.

"I see you have made yourself quite comfortable," Ron heard a woman's voice. It was silken and cool like winter. "And ah, a pipe! Have you become fond of them through your association with my estranged husband, Lucius?"

He suddenly sat straight and looked at where the voice had ushered from. By the entrance, a blonde woman stood in a black gown and an emerald fur coat. His face reddened from fear. He quickly jumped to his feet and was attempting to flee: he was running towards the fireplace, and was about to use the Floo network when Narcissa removed her wand. His efforts died in vain, as he was jinxed with an immobulus charm. He immediately fell; his face was against the ground now, so he could not see his surroundings. He could hear, however, and he heard the sound of heels clacking grow near.

A heel soon pressed into his back. Narcissa was standing above him and was pushing his body with her foot, so he could roll over. Once successful, she lowered herself and sat on her knees. She peered down at his face and smirked. "Hello Mr. Weasley," she said. "Ron, is it? I apologize for my abrupt visitation. I would ask you how you're doing, but you can't answer me. So, I shall be reading your mind instead."

His eyes expanded. Narcissa gazed into them, and soon found herself in a strange, vague place of peace. Here, there was no anxiety, no fear. Nothing, really. His mind was almost… empty. Was he an accomplished Occulumens? No, that couldn't be. This particular Weasley did not seem remarkably intelligent. She searched further, but found nothing. He was thoughtless. But, how could that be…?

Perplexed, she removed herself from his mind and sat still for a moment. Her sharp brain mulled over the quandary.

 _Of, course…_

She sighed and neared her face to his again. "You have been imperiused, haven't you?" she whispered while looking down at his eyes. Well, that had been useless— and cunning on Lucius' part. He chose to imperius Ron and not Harry, for the latter was possessed by a greater will and a brighter mind, so he could avoid its effects. And further, one couldn't peer into the head of a witch or wizard who was imperiused. She looked back down at the limp redhead beneath her."Try to fight it, Mr. Weasley," she told him. "You are in there somewhere."

His eyes sparkled; it was as if he had recalled himself, but the twinkle quickly vanished. She frowned. "I cannot notify anyone of your condition, as using Legilimency without a permit is illegal," she informed him. "I cannot risk being imprisoned presently... I hope you understand." She then lightly patted his chest, and said,"Goodbye, Mr. Weasley," before rising.

Narcissa had collected all the information she could. As she made her way towards the door of the office, she removed leather gloves from the pockets of her fur coat. While putting them on, she thought of Lucius. How she wished to suffocate him with her very own hands, to see life ebb away from his eyes…

It was time to visit the sly scoundrel.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Not sure if I'll be updating until the end of December due to exams, so I decided to post what I had written so far. Hope you enjoyed it. Do tell me me what you think! :)

Edit: Fixed some grammatical errors and typos. Sorry about that!


	18. Chapter 17: Another Secretary

**Chapter 17: Another Secretary and a Budding Friendship**

* * *

 _"There are some things you can't share_

 _without ending up liking each other,_

 _and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them."_

 _~ J.K Rowling_

* * *

"Mr. Malfoy is not here, Ms. Black," said Raven, Lucius' secretary, a dark haired vixen with expressionless, ebony eyes.

"When will he be back?" Narcissa asked.

Raven shrugged. Her dark eyes were being evasive; they were moving about."Mr. Malfoy has not informed me," she said.

"Where is he?"

"He hasn't informed me," she repeated. The secretary was still trying to keep her gaze away from her. Lucius had most likely ordered her to do so in her presence. What's more, her office had many windows, so there were witches and wizards working in the office booths outside that could peer in. As such, she couldn't make the girl gaze back with… some force and intimidation, as those outside the office would notice.

Exasperated by her predicament, Narcissa furrowed her brows, and nibbled on her lower lip. She brushed her long fingers through her hair, while trying to think of another route to her objective: finding what Lucius was up to. " _There is always a way, Cissy,"_ Bella had told her once. _Say something that can divulge information while seeming entirely innocent,_ she then thought to herself. "Very well. Let him know that he cannot miss our appointment at Gringotts. It is next week. If he is not present, his protest on the amount I am arguing for will not be upheld; and so, I will automatically acquire the sum I seek," she lied, while smirking devilishly.

Incredulous, the secretary let out a small chuckle. "Why would you wish to tell me that? Isn't it in your interest to earn the money?"

 _She has a point, but t_ _here is always a way, Cissy._ "…Yes, it is in my interest. However, I wish to make the playing field equal. You see, we have been together for two decades, and I can't help but respect him … despite our differences." _What a lie._ "So, don't believe what I've said, but then Lucius will fire you for being incompetent… if what I have to say is true." Narcissa smiled, a facade. "So, darling, isn't it it in _your_ interest to tell me when he'll be back… to avoid being placed in such a circumstance?"

The girl appeared to look worried. She had pressed her lips into a thin line, and was listening to her very attentively. There was no appointment and nor would there ever be; she had not cared to wage war against Lucius in the hopes of acquiring money from him; Narcissa was not desperate, as she had inherited from her forefathers a handsome sum that could rival how much Lucius held in his vault. "So, if you have any sense in you, you will inform me of when he is to return. That way, I can change the date of the appointment… and you shall be able to keep your job," she said before waiting impatiently for a response, hoping the girl would divulge when Lucius would be back…

A moment transpired. Raven was sitting quietly, and was most likely thinking of the best course of action to take. She then parted her lips, having arrived at a decision. "... He won't be back so soon," she whispered.

 _Good girl._ Narcissa nodded, while trying her best to hide a smirk.

"Can you change the appointment to some time in early February?" the secretary asked.

February? What sort of affairs could require his absence from London for so long? He had never previously left for more than a few weeks; miserly, he had feared his business ventures in London would suffer from his absence. But, for some reason, he had now decided to leave for two months…

What could he possibly be doing?

Perplexed, she crumpled her pale brows before smiling at the girl."I thought you didn't know when he was coming back."

Raven's face blanched.

Silver, devious eyes twinkled. Narcissa had begun to chuckle heartily. So, his secretary was on it too… whatever this was. For why was she otherwise protecting him? Perhaps, love… yes love… money… or a bit of both.

 _Secretaries…_ "Thank you," she said to the girl in her cool voice; it had been laced with derision. "Farewell, dear." She turned around from her and walked towards the door.

Meanwhile, the secretary, who was most likely a Slytherin, did not respond. Instead, she looked back with a face riddled with fear, certainly concerned about what the cunning witch had now come to understand.

When Narcissa returned home, which was Andromeda's house for the time-being, she noted a young man with unruly, jet-black hair sitting in the living room. "She's been out all day. I'm terribly worried - I've heard rumours about there being anti-pureblood sentiment in London presently…" said Andromeda anxiously. She was mid-way in conversation with the man, but they quickly stopped speaking, having noticed her arrival.

The young man turned around to face the visitor, and Andromeda followed suit. It was Harry Potter _._ Caught be surprise, his green eyes expanded, but then they softened. Andromeda's expression turned from concern and worry to relief. "There you are!" she cried, while Harry smiled warmly and rose from his seat.

When he had neared her, he grabbed her hand, and laid a chivalrous kiss upon it. "I'm glad I can finally see you, Ms. Black… " He straightened himself, letting go of her hand with a gentle squeeze. "... but I wish I had seen you at a better time… I don't think I can be myself right now." He frowned.

Narcissa nodded. "I understand… "

While still smiling, he answered, "Call me Harry. After all, you saved my life."

She grimaced; her pale eyes were sad. During the past few weeks, they were either plunged in melancholia or fury. She shook her head softly. "I'm afraid I'm not that kind. You know very well I thought I was saving my son's life…"

Harry continued to smile. "I know, but that's all right… I think I still owe you a life-debt."

Narcissa's frown turned into a smile. She felt calm around him. For some reason, he reminded her of Hermione; Harry was the closest link she had to her. He felt... familiar. She supposed he was also quite a bit like her departed son, Draco: intelligent, wise and kind. "Very well," she replied. "Call me Narcissa, then," she said. "Let us sit down, Harry?"

He nodded. Teddy was playing on the floor of the living room with cars, Muggle contraptions Narcissa was of course acquainted with; the streets of London were full of them. According to Andromeda, Arthur Weasley, infatuated with Muggle things, had gifted them to him. The boy hadn't noticed her yet; he was too engrossed in his toys. In his little hand, he held a car and was moving it around in the air, as if it were a broom. Harry chuckled as he sat down on a sofa. "It moves on the floor, Teddy. It's not a broom. It can't fly…" He suddenly remembered the time he and Ron had flown in a car to Hogwarts, so he added, "... unless you use magic."

The boy didn't seem to care for what Harry had said. He was still soaring the car around with his hand in the air. " _Vroom… Vrooooooom,"_ he squealed.

Narcissa had removed her fur jacket, and was presently sitting down on the sofa opposite to Harry and Andromeda, and directly behind her nephew. She decided to startle the toddler. Slowly, so as to avoid his notice, she placed her long nails on his neck and lightly scratched the skin there with them. Irked by the tickling sensation, the boy ruffled his brows and swatted the back of his neck with his small, dimpled hand. Still, he did not notice her. Andromeda and Harry were about to chortle, but Narcissa placed the index finger of her free hand on her lips. She did it again. The boy swatted his neck once more; suddenly, Narcissa couldn't help but laugh herself. Andromeda and Harry joined in. Teddy quickly gazed back, wondering what all the fuss was about. Shortly, he smirked, knowing he had been fooled. He rose from the ground and stormed towards Narcissa with his hands held in the air.

"CISSY!" he screamed, as if he hadn't seen his aunt for ages (when just this morning, she had fed him his cereal; but a whole day was quite a long time in a toddler's life).

She pulled him up, and was shortly ambushed by his embrace. He wrapped his arms very tightly around her neck, nearly choking her, while peppering her with sloppy kisses. She wrinkled her nose. "Oh gods. Teddy. You're rather … strong." His small limbs were sturdier than she had expected. She petted his back to calm him down, and kissed his forehead. The cheerful toddler then made himself cozy in her lap.

Teddy then pointed at Harry. "Hawwy!" he said, introducing his godfather to Narcissa.

"Yes, love. It's Harry. I know."

The toddler gawked at Narcissa, confused over how she could know Harry when he had never seen them together before. Terribly young, he thought the entire world revolved around him, and consisted only of what he could perceive. So, he thought introductions were still in order: he pointed his finger at Narcissa, deciding to present his aunt to Harry. " _Cissy_!" he said with a lisp.

Harry nodded and looked at Narcissa with his gentle, twinkling eyes. "It's nice to meet you, Cissy." He had said her name with a lisp.

Narcissa chuckled. "Likewise... _Hawwy."_

He smiled, amused by this side of the seemingly intimidating witch; Harry was grateful that she had decided to trust him, and remove her shields. He had been expecting more hostility and reserve, but had received nothing but warmth and sincerity. He then eyed the growing bump on her abdomen. Narcissa noted where his eyes had travelled. "Ginny was her most comfortable in her second trimester. But, the last few months and the first few were terrible," he said.

Narcissa nodded. "Yes. That was the case with Draco… And with her," she placed a hand on the side of her bulge (as the other side was covered by Teddy's head), "I had not been able to keep anything down the first few months." She smirked. "Perhaps, she was concerned about my figure." She then insinuated at the expanding swell under her hand, "She doesn't seem to be anymore, however."

Harry chuckled. "But, do enjoy these months… and start planning now when you can move."

She nodded again. "Yes, I suppose I should start thinking about the nursery…" But, she didn't want to, not without Hermione; and she had much preferred the first few months despite how ill her health had been. Her stupid, moronic witch had not been shackled behind bars then; panic… and love had not crippled her.

Harry caught sight of the sorrow in her silver eyes, while Andromeda rose to bring tea. "I'd hate to be around you Cissy in your last trimester," the dark haired sister whispered, as she walked towards the kitchen. "I imagine you'll be terribly angsty."

Narcissa furrowed her brows. "Well, _I imagine_ anyone with an abdomen the size of an astronomically large watermelon would be."

Harry chuckled. "She has a point, 'Meda," he screamed after Andromeda. When he turned to face Narcissa again, he smiled. "So, how are you doing?" he asked. "If you need anything, please let me know… I'll always be at your service."

She nodded. "Thank you. And not too well, I fear… " Now that the opportunity presented itself, there was a thing or two that she wanted him to do. Narcissa took in a deep breath. Explanations, however, would have to come first. "I have to tell you something about your friend, Hermione."

He nodded. "Go on."

"I think Lucius is behind it."

Harry's emerald eyes darkened. His veins enlarged. "That prat!" He suddenly spat. Then, realizing he wasn't being very gentlemanly, apologized: "Sorry," he said.

"No, he is most certainly a prat," Narcissa replied. "I realized from a conversation with his secretary that he is outside of London, perhaps England. He will be gone for two months. Merlin knows where he is… and what vile tricks he has up his sleeve." She shook her head, exasperated by how little she knew. "And your friend, Ron, I'm sorry to say… has been imperiused," she added after a moment.

Harry wrinkled his brows. Narcissa noted the expression on his face. He was not doubtful, but he was certainly alarmed and shocked.

"Secretaries," she elucidated. "And some legilimency."

"Oh," he replied. An auror, he was quick to understand the tools Narcissa had used to unearth the said information. He sighed, while sitting pensively. They both sat in silence for some time. "So, Lucius put Hermione in prison and Ron has been imperiused… " He summarized what she had said after a moment. "Ron's the minister of defence now. I thought he was just filling in for Hermione… hoping she'd come back."

Narcissa sighed. "No, I don't believe that is the case"

"Of course," added Harry. "And Ron will be able to hide Lucius' footprints as a minister. He can destroy evidence of anything that might catch Lucius red-handed."

"Yes," replied Narcissa. "That was precisely my hypothesis… "

Harry rubbed his forehead with his hand, wondering how he could help Ron, and if there was a way to undo the effects of the imperius curse without killing Lucius. He could not kill Lucius, even if he wanted to. Only the Wizengamot could decide what to do with Lucius; if found guilty, they would probably force him to break the curse, and he would then reside in a prison for his entire life. But, the matter could not be brought to the Wizengamot unless evidence was put forth. And the evidence right now only consisted of Narcissa using legilimency and intimidating secretaries; it would land the witch in prison. Harry understood the predicament they were in.

Narcissa frowned. "I worry that some in the Wizengamot may have been bribed as well. Lucius would have surely done that."

Harry nodded. "Wouldn't be surprised."

"Do you believe that… Shacklebolt is bought? I do not know him well enough to know."

He shrugged, while sighing. "I don't know. But I've seen power change good people… into awful ones." He had learnt that while working at the ministry.

And she had too from her life experiences. "Yes, power is intoxicating." She grimaced. "Can you do a favour for me?" she then asked.

Harry nodded. "Of course."

"Two, actually," said Narcissa. "I would like to see Hermione… " she began; presently, Hermione was confined in Azkaban, which was under a strict no visitation rule. "... if that's possible," she whispered.

Harry gazed intently at her with his perceptive, emerald eyes. Narcissa did not care to hide anything from him. She expressed to him with her gaze how much his friend, Hermione meant to her; her eyes changed colour; now, they were terribly blue, and moistened from despair. "Please," she whispered. "I must see her. I-" she paused, gnawing on her underlip. "I must," she repeated, unable to further explain.

He understood what Hermione meant to Narcissa; the witch before him cared for her not only because she was her child's other parent. Her eyes were sparkling; tears were being held at bay. Harry had never seen the aristocrat in such a dishevelled manner before. "Of course," he answered. "I'll see if I can do anything." He did not have to further gauge to know for certain if she and Hermione were madly in love with each other. Her wet eyes and her plea had told him the entire story.

And he could see why Hermione had been drawn to this woman; who wouldn't fall madly in love with such a beautiful witch? Narcissa appeared to have been painted with a great amount of consideration by the gods. Her appearance was phantasmagorical… it caused all to look at her twice. She was also quite charming once she decided to open herself to you (a privilege given to only a special few, Harry supposed), and she appeared to be quite clever. Hermione could not have helped but been a moth to this flame; furthermore, his most cherished friend had likely found solace in finding another mind as keen as hers, and more importantly, one that could understand her wholly.

No one could understand Hermione's mind. Despite knowing her for this long, he couldn't either at times. Hermione was more than human; she was beyond his comprehension. Anyone's comprehension. But, he was certain Narcissa was able to decode her. Perhaps, she was the only person in all of Wizarding England who could see Hermione's inner workings. For, she too appeared more than mortal.

It made sense. The two of them together. They were a perfect fit... or the closest thing to it. It was almost as if fate had brought them together; the growing protuberance on the platinum haired witch's belly was a testament. So, he could not hold Hermione's regard for Narcissa against her. And besides, he had always been startled by Hermione and Ron's relationship; they had been terribly different, but to rationalize their attraction, he had made himself believe that opposites attracted…

But, perhaps they had been far too different. Perhaps, fate had other ideas, a more suitable other half for Hermione.

"Thank you," whispered Hermione's other half. He was drawn out of his thoughts.

"Don't thank me yet," said Harry. "You still have to ask me for another favour."

She nodded. "Yes, that. I'd like to see Shacklebolt. I wish to use Legilimency on him…"

"I can do that too," answered Harry.

"Is there anything you can't do?" she said teasingly.

He chuckled. "I killed the darkest wizard in history. So, I suppose I can do everything."

"Yes, I trust you can," she replied. "So, I hope you don't become a dark wizard."

"I think I might," he joked. He then noted that Teddy had fallen asleep on Narcissa's bulge. Harry smiled. "Teddy has made himself quite comfortable," he whispered.

The witch peered down to see her nephew; she too smiled. Her abdomen was large enough to use as a pillow now. How had that happened? It took her by surprise. Two weeks ago, it was much smaller; she was alarmed by how much it had swelled in that time. Now, it was visibly there, and visibly round. Her body was rapidly changing every few weeks; she was about five months along now.

Five months…

Soon, gentle flutters would turn into painful kicks. Then, her little girl would have to come. While overwhelmed by the dreadful and harrowing pangs of their daughter's delivery, would Hermione be there, holding her hand? Would Hermione be able to hold their wriggling, pink newborn in her arms? And, would Hermione be able to see their little girl blossom into a beautiful woman?

Would she be able to do it all without her?

Once, she thought she could. But now, now...

Her breath quivered. Narcissa's thoughts had travelled to darker places. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing such thoughts could leave her alone for now (but even if they did, they would come back to haunt her later). Fortunately, just then, Andromeda came with a platter that held tea and biscuits. She chuckled at the toddler's position in her sister's lap, finding it absolutely adorable. However, when her gaze fell on Harry, she noticed that his face was pale. For a moment, she wondered if her complicated sister had made him uncomfortable; she was about to give Narcissa a sharp stare and was planning to chide her later on, until he spoke: "Lucius has put Hermione behind bars. And Ron has been imperiused."

The platter fell from her hand; the chinaware fell against the ground, cracking into pieces, making Teddy awake with a start. Quickly, Narcissa hushed him by rubbing his back and telling him everything was fine. " _Shh…_ It's all right, Teddy," she murmured. "Everything is fine, little one." The boy looked at her worriedly, at her wet eyes, but could not help but be soothed by her lovely, calm voice. Still in the clutch of sleep, his head fell back on her marginally inflated belly. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed the curly hair on his head, which had morphed from black to blonde in her arms. Then, she closed her eyes, because she felt tears wishing to escape, but she did not want to cry; no, letting those tears escape would sap her strength, and Narcissa wished to be strong for Hermione, and for the little girl growing within her.

Nevertheless, she feared she would shatter at any moment like the tea cups that had fallen; fearing she would break into a million pieces, she could not help but long for someone to hold her as tightly as she was holding her nephew in her arms…

But, she knew only Hermione's arms could ever calm her utterly.

Would she ever be in her arms again?

Lost in thought, she buried her head in Teddy's hair, soothed somewhat by the special, sweet scent found only in very small children. Then, she was whirled out of her reverie when a hand squeezed her arm. She peered up; it was Harry. He had seated himself next to her, and was smiling genuinely. Andromeda was sitting behind him with her head perched on his shoulder. The two were quite familiar with each other; she hadn't thought they were so close. But, she was not startled; Harry was like Teddy's father, and had a special place in Andromeda's home. "Don't be so glum over my tea cups - they can be replaced," said Andromeda with a smirk. Her warm brown eyes twinkled mischievously.

Narcissa shook her head. "Oh, but I adored them." It was a private joke; she had mentioned to Andromeda many weeks ago how she thought her chinaware was rather unattractive. " _They're terribly yellow… An awful, greenish yellow." Their colouring had reminded her of bile, and since bile had become a despised, familiar sight, she abhorred her sister's chinaware with every ounce of her being. "Oh gods, Andromeda. My eyes are pained," she had complained._

" _Yes, that's why I like them," her sister had responded, ever the eccentric. "Because of their effect on your eyes," she had teased._

 _Narcissa's brows had crumpled; she had glowered. "Oh. You're fiendish. Do you know how often I must see that horrid colour?"_

Andromeda chuckled. "I know you adored them. But don't worry. I shall buy new ones."

"Please don't," answered Narcissa. "I still have an intense dislike for that particular colour." She then gazed at the boy in her arms.

"Very well," said Andromeda. "I'll be kind. I won't."

"Thank you," replied Narcissa. She was still gazing at the boy in her arms. "I think it's time for him to sleep in his bed." And her too; her eyes felt heavy. She was tired. Fatigued, her body, taxed with providing for another, would not allow her to be awake for much longer. Her wish had been granted: her thoughts had slowed even though so much had occurred today; she would not be allowed to think for much longer. She would sleep immediately if she could, right there on the sofa, but she knew her maddening sister would only allow her to sleep in a bed.

Narcissa yawned softly. "I think I have to sleep too…" she whispered.

Harry rose to pick Teddy from her arms. She gingerly loosened him from her hold, so as to not awaken him, and handed him over to Harry.

"One day," whispered Harry, "I won't be able to hold him like this anymore…" His eyes sparkled. "But, by then, I'll have a niece to hold…"

She smiled at him. Butterflies were fluttering in her womb. She rubbed her belly gently. "She wishes to tell you something. I cannot translate, however."

Harry Potter smiled widely, absolutely elated. "I'm sure she's trying to tell me how she's so glad that you like me."

"Yes," replied Narcissa, while rising from the sofa (that would become a difficult task soon, she thought woefully). "I'm positive that's the case." She looked at him and then Andromeda. "Good-night, Harry. I fear I cannot stay awake for much longer." She then crumpled her pale brows and put her arms around her bosom. "As for you," she said to Andromeda, "I shan't be wishing you a goodnight, owing to your earlier comment."

Andromeda chuckled, while Harry smiled warmly, awfully grateful and relieved that Narcissa had trusted him with her true self; Hermione would surely be surprised at how well they got along.

He then thought of his troublesome childhood, of all the times Hermione had stood by his side, of all the times she had put her life in peril for him without refrain. He would have never survived without her. And so, Harry Potter promised to himself that he would never fail his treasured friend, as he strode with Teddy in his arms towards the staircase. He was willing to die for her if he had to.

A somnolent Narcissa followed him, and when they reached the top floor, she looked at him with her tired, pale eyes; she was dead tired from today's exertions, and of course, from dread and despair. "Goodnight," she murmured. "I think we'll be great friends… " She smiled. "... Harry," she added after a pause, as if to notify him that she only called those she held dear by their first names.

"Goodnight," he whispered back. "And I think so too." He returned a genuine smile. "And thank you…" he added. "Really, Narcissa - thank you for trusting me."

She stood still for a moment, watching his peculiar emerald eyes. Meanwhile, Harry wondered if she was using legilimency. "I believe I always have," she then said. "Maybe I did save your life... not just for my son. You have so much… soul," she then murmured, "... like Hermione." Then, she turned around. Harry watched the retreating form of the complex witch; she was unworldy, he thought to himself. As he beheld her, he also promised that he would defend with all his might his cherished friend's family: her unborn daughter, and the woman she loved.

Because, Hermione wasn't simply a dear friend; she was more than that. To Harry Potter, she was like a sister. And he knew Hermione felt the same way about him. Unlike Ron, they were both alone in this world; they were only-children: one orphaned, while the other born to parents belonging to a world she would never truly belong to. Hermione had never been able to lean on her parents, as they had not been able to guide her in a world incomprehensible to them. So, like him, Hermione had also fended for herself for much of her life, whilst putting faith in the sincerity and kindness of strangers. In a way, she too was like an orphan.

Through their lonesomeness, they had become each other's siblings. Harry Potter suddenly realized Hermione was not simply like a sister; she was his sister. And so, that mysterious witch she had fallen in love with, and the child she carried were his family too.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

So... I somehow got intoxicated when I should have been studying. Peer pressure sucks. I ended up leaving my drunk friends, and I wrote this instead of socializing. I'm such a party pooper!

Hope you enjoyed it. An extra long chapter. Perhaps, I should drink more often :P. I seem to write more quickly when I'm inebriated. I probably won't be updating until the end of December. But who know? Maybe I'll get tipsy again and I'll be writing once more instead of studying like I should.


	19. Chapter 18: A House Party

**Chapter 18: A House Party and Some Misanthropy**

* * *

 _"He never cared too much for parties or people,_

 _but misanthropy could easily be cured by several alcoholic drinks."_

~ _Daniel J. Rice, This Side of a Wilderness_

* * *

12 Grimmauld Place felt alien. The new occupants, Harry Potter and his wife, had drastically changed its interior. The walls were no longer dark and gloomy; they were all painted a bright white, and the corridors no longer held portraits of her ancestors. Her forefathers inhabited their portraits at Black Manor more often, and she now finally understood why: the ones they had here had been removed. She could comprehend the reasoning behind Harry and his wife's removal of their portraits (her ancestors were not the most cheerful people, to put it lightly), but now she had to deal with the after-effects of their decision.

For now, at least she was at Andromeda's. She sighed, while holding a glass of water, and wishing it were alcohol, as socializing would have been less of a burden.

Before coming to Harry's house party, Andromeda had told her to not dress over the top: _"Cissy, try not to look like a fashion model on Witch Weekly; don't dress over the top. The Weasleys will be there. Harry's wife might even become unfriendly towards you if you do. So, wear something casual, all right?"_ she had cautioned, as if wearing one of her couture dresses would ignite anarchy in the party. To boot, she had not really known what 'don't dress over the top' had implied; so, she had badgered Andromeda about it until her sister had gotten tired of her harassment, and had chosen the clothes for her herself.

Accordingly, presently she wore dark, slim-fit jeans (they were a bit snug around her abdomen, but she refused to buy maternity wear until it was absolutely necessary), and a simple, cream blouse made of silk that fell around her like a waterfall, somewhat successfully hiding her relatively rounded abdomen, while highlighting her ample chest. Narcissa looked soft and curvaceous, much to her chagrin, as she found many members at the house party were either gazing at her hungrily or with envy (Arthur Weasley and his wife fell in those categories. Molly Weasley had entirely ignored her presence after a curt hello. Narcissa did not mind, however).

Andromeda walked leisurely towards her while holding a glass of wine. Her sister's twinkling eyes in the unfamiliar sea of people eased her. She was standing alone behind the kitchen counter; Harry and Ginny had removed the walls to the kitchen at Grimmauld; it was now part of the drawing room. Seeing Grimmauld Place so modern… was so odd.

"My attempts at making you look less alluring have failed sorely. Molly has been entirely quiet, which is especially odd for her; but on the brighter side, I heard her daughter mention to Harry how she thinks you're 'not _too_ bad'," whispered Andromeda by her ear when she had neared her.

"Not _too_ bad…" _But_ still _bad._ Narcissa chuckled softly. She was not offended by Molly's perception of her, as she was used to receiving judgment; at least her daughter was slightly more cordial. "Oh well…I can't blame them. Lucius always gave the Weasleys such a hard time." She sighed. "You know?" she said after a moment. "I cannot believe I am at Grimmauld. Everything looks very different."

"Yes," replied Andromeda. "I like the changes they made. It was so solemn before. But look—" she pointed at a crack in the ceiling. "You did that. Do you remember? You were rather young."

Narcissa knitted her brows in concentration before smiling, having recalled the day Andromeda was referring to. "Yes, I think I do," she answered. Nostalgia tinged her silver eyes blue. Her and Regulus had been playing Quidditch in the drawing room; his parents had been absent, so they had taken advantage of the situation. She had smacked the ceiling with a bludger. The impact had caused the crack. Then, she had fallen from her broom, and had collapsed against the ground from the momentum, as she had been quite young, six or seven, so she had been rather weak. She pointed momentarily at the lit fireplace: "I believe I almost broke my skull against its stone edges."

Andromeda snorted, as if having her skull cracked was a hilarious situation. "I remember finding you unconscious. _Merlin_ , I was awfully worried, and terribly furious at Regulus – you should have seen him. He was pitiable; we found him weeping uncontrollably by your side. " She laughed softly. "But, I still slapped him quite hard."

"Poor Reggie," whispered Narcissa. "It wasn't only his fault. I was his conspirator."

Andromeda smirked. "I would have slapped you too if you didn't look like death. We had to go to St. Mungo's… you were bleeding profusely." She rolled her eyes. "And the entire time, Aunt Walburga, _the whale_ was more concerned about her shattered possessions than your skull."

Narcissa chuckled. "Understandable." She had recalled shattering many of her aunt's expensive and exotic ornaments. "I was a terrible child," she confessed.

"Yes," answered Andromeda, while taking a sip of wine. "You and Regulus were the naughty quiet kind. Maman and Aunt Walburga were always nervous about having the two of you together in the same vicinity." She shook her head.

"Well, I suppose I should apologize," answered Narcissa, "for my juvenile misdemeanors."

"I'd forgive you if you weren't still exasperating," Andromeda retorted.

All of a sudden, her sister got on her nerves. She was used to being her object of ridicule, but she found herself more angered by her teasing than customary. Narcissa softly huffed. "There's no point in being courteous with you," she replied before drinking water from her glass; she was awfully thirsty these days. At times, she would wake up with a parched throat that very well felt like the sand dunes of Giza. What's more, lower backaches had begun, and they were absolutely dreadful; she knew they would only get worse with time. _I certainly hope you're grateful…_ she scolded her baby, slightly peeved by all that she had endured, and would have to endure for her. _Well._ It wasn't really her child's fault. But still, she was terribly incensed at being inconvenienced.

"You're being particularly hormonal today… I suspect it's the party."

Narcissa simply glowered.

Her sister rolled her eyes. "You're _so_ misanthropic, you know?" she began after taking another sip of wine. "If my niece takes after you, I'm certainly not going to tend to her in my home."

"I shall tell her that when she's older," she replied tartly.

"Don't you dare," answered Andromeda in dark tones. When her livid eyes calmed, she added flippantly: "Anyhow, with any luck, she won't be a handful."

Narcissa sighed; knowing how she was during her formative years, and having heard of Hermione's childhood misadventures with her friends, she knew her daughter would be a handful no matter which mother she took after. "I have a feeling she will be," she replied. Just then, she felt the fluttering, a confirmation. _Eavesdropper…_ she chided her little girl before smiling, and thinking fondly of the dream she had had of her. She had called her monkey; suddenly nervous, she questioned whether her daughter's pet name concerned her temperament.

"Cissy?" came her sister's voice.

"Yes?" She turned her attention to her sister, while worried about what storms her daughter would bring. Her face was still riddled with apprehension.

"...You know why I was always babysitting you?" whispered Andromeda, her voice was slow and heavy from alcohol. "Because Bella did not mind – Maman knew she would let you loose, so I was given the burden."

"Really?" she asked, suspicious. Had she been so terrible that she had been Bella's favourite?

Andromeda nodded and was about to take another sip of wine. "Bella loved you very much…" Her eyes hardened; they blackened until they looked like onyx gems. Her resemblance to Bella mushroomed; for a moment, Narcissa thought she was staring at her sister's ghost, and internally shivered. "When I left, she sent me an owl… saying how much she hated me, and that I… I 'left family for _fucking' –_ her words _…_ "

"I'm sorry, 'Meda," answered Narcissa. She put a hand on her sister's shoulder.

"It hurt," she replied. Her dark eyes bedewed. "Because she was right… I left you alone with our psychotic parents, and Bella who … perhaps became psychotic because I left. I wasn't there for you… I suppose she always hated me for this – her and I felt like we were your parents – you were so little, so pretty and so unsullied by life. We wanted to keep you that way," she confided. "And maybe, she also hated me because I came right after her…" she added; her eyes then lightened and turned to their usual shade. She looked like herself again. Narcissa relaxed. "But I… I couldn't hate her, never can – curse of the middle child," she murmured, "even though I want to… it would make things easier…"

Narcissa sighed. "You didn't leave me," she whispered. "You had to go. There is a difference. And, I wish I had too… As for what Bella became after you left, you did _not_ do that—"

"How do you know—"

"You _didn't_ , all right? She did it to herself. She made those choices. I was there. I saw her make them," Narcissa insisted. She then removed her hand from her shoulder, and seized the glass from her hold, knowing she was becoming melancholic from the wine; she placed the glass on the marble counter. Andromeda did not protest. She then looked back at her. "And you were calling me hormonal," she teased, attempting to lighten her mood.

Andromeda smirked. "Empathy. I'm catching your symptoms."

"Try not to. One of us needs to be sane," she lectured, but she wore a smile.

"I'll try."

Then, they stayed silent for some time, each ruminating over their missing sister, while listening to the ebullient voices in the party—that is, before Narcissa broke the quietude. Despite wanting Andromeda to forget about Bellatrix for now, she could not help but ask: "What do you think really happened to her?" Because she had always wondered… had always tried to find excuses for Bella; how could have Bella, who had been so tongue-in-cheek and full of life, committed those sickening deeds? It was very hard to believe at times. Every time she had heard of her depravity, she has thought to herself: _It can't be Bella. Not my Bella._ But, each time it had been; her Bella had even murdered family: their cousin, Sirius, who had once been like a brother, and her very own niece.

And yet, like Andromeda, she still loved her in spite of knowing the monstrosities she had birthed. How could she still love her? She felt guilty for loving her… Narcissa eyed the glass of wine with envy; how she wished she were intoxicated right now, too inebriated to think.

Andromeda grimaced. "You would know better than me… power, perhaps," she replied. "You know how our parents stifled us. Voldemort made her feel empowered. Bella could have joined the Order, but perhaps… she did not want our parents to be disappointed, either. Or maybe, she merely wished to do what all the Slytherin boys were doing – she was always such a gamine."

Bella had indeed been a girl with mischievous, boyish charm; could have something endearing about her disposition caused her to commit such horrible deeds? Why had fate been so bitter towards her?

Why was fate so bitter towards them?

Suddenly furious, Narcissa scrunched her brows and pursed her lips. She began to slowly draw invisible squiggles on the marble counter she was standing behind with the long nail of her index finger, lost in thought.

Andromeda stopped her. She placed her hand on hers, and gently squeezed it. "Cissy," she whispered. "Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned her."

"It's fine," she said with downcast eyes. "I think of her from time to time too," she replied before firmly clutching the edges of the counter with her long, slender hands. She took in a deep breath, and untangled herself from dwelling on the past, cleansed herself of as much anger as she could, before letting her hands fall to her side. Her notice returned to her sister, who had been watching her the entire time with concern, well aware of the Stygian waters she had been drowning in. "It's very hard, 'Meda," she murmured to her, almost croaked. She did not know what exactly she was referring to.

Everything, perhaps.

Her older sister nodded. Her warm eyes glimmered with sympathy. "I know, love," she whispered back. Andromeda neared, breath smelling of wine, and tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear. "I don't really find you that exasperating, my pretty," she confessed. "And I'll babysit my niece… even if she's a headache."

Narcissa smiled, wondering what she would do without her batty sister. Then, she turned her gaze away from her to observe the prime minister. He was sitting next to Harry, lost deep within voracious laughter. Harry kept on filling his glass. "Is Shacklebolt adequately intoxicated?" she asked Andromeda.

"We shall see," Andromeda replied. "Wait a moment."

She nodded and watched her sister go.

Soon, a beautiful blonde witch had noted she was without company, much to her annoyance; she was striding towards her with a blonde child in her arms. " 'ello," she said when she had neared. Her English accent carried a French lilt. "Not sure if you remember me from introductions. I am Fleur," she said while blushing. "Sorry for my Eenglish."

Narcissa smiled politely. "Oui, je me souviens de toi," she answered in French, thinking the woman would have an easier time if she conversed with her in her native language. "And your English is fine, dear."

Fleur's eyes expanded; she was so pleased to have found someone who could speak with her in her mother tongue. _"You speak French?"_ she asked in her native language.

Narcissa nodded.

" _Oh, I am so glad!"_

They continued the rest of the conversation in French. _"My mother was a Rosier. They are from France,_ " explained Narcissa. _"I used to go with my sisters to Marseille every summer."_

 _"_ _Oh, Marseille is beautiful."_

 _"_ _Yes, it is lovely,"_ she replied. " _You must have gone to Beauxbutton?"_

Fleur nodded.

 _"_ _My mother wished to send me and my sisters there, but my father did not believe it was the appropriate school for us."_

 _"_ _An insensible decision, Madame,"_ answered Fleur. " _My time at Beauxbutton was wonderful. I miss those days… "_ The child in her arms was fast asleep. It was late and past her bedtime. _"Now, I am enslaved to my daughter!"_

 _"_ _I shall be soon."_ Narcissa smiled at the blonde girl in the woman's arms; she was reminded of her own daughter. Would she be a blonde like her or a brunette like Hermione? In the dream, she had her platinum strands, but Hermione's stubborn hair. Narcissa hoped tending to her child's hair would not prove to be excruciatingly difficult.

 _"_ _I wish you luck, truly,"_ Fleur continued, " _you'll lose quite a bit of your sleep in a few months, even after the birth, so I advise that you sleep as often as you can now."_

But she could not sleep as often as was necessary, not with Hermione in Azkaban. Narcissa nodded, however, and said, _"I will,"_ but her eyes glimmered, hinting at her restless nights, and at her inability to heal her insomnia.

Fleur noticed the change in Narcissa's demeanor, and decided to change the subject: " _You must have gone to Hogwarts? How was it?"_

 _"_ _Frightening at first,"_ she replied, glad that the conversation was no longer focused on her daughter or pregnancy; both subjects made her think of Hermione. " _When I was first sorted,"_ she began, " _I hated my common room; it was always cold and dark. Many of my fellow Slytherins said they liked it, but I believe they were lying to themselves."_

Fleur laughed. _"An honest Slytherin. I think you're a rare specimen."_

She smirked, and took a glimpse of her sister: Andromeda was all coquettish and saccharine while deep in conversation with Shacklebolt _"No. If you're looking for a Slytherin who's a rare specimen, that would be my dear sister, Andromeda."_

Fleur chuckled. _"Yes, I know 'Meda very well. She is quite … odd."_

Narcissa smiled. _"Yes, she certainly is. And very honest, especially with herself."_ She suddenly frowned. " _But, I… I wish I were more honest… with myself… "_

Fleur's eyes softened.

She did not know why she had confided in the half-Veela. Though she saw no harm in it, she wished she hadn't; it was very much unlike her, but her pregnancy hormones made her do strange things: she was more clement and uninhibited. She had thought of how long she had lied to herself about her feelings for Hermione, what use it had served, and had blurted it out. She had imagined her witch all alone in a damp cell, unaware of how much she loved her for her courage, her mind, her heart… for being her. She missed her clumsy, curious Muggleborn, missed her awkward, shy smiles, the way she blushed a ferocious red under her gaze, missed her thick, uncontrollable hair, and how her pretty, russet-brown eyes bore into hers, and sought to find the wounds within her soul, sought to mend them… sought to cherish her.

She missed her… terribly.

Narcissa promised to herself to tell Hermione when she visited her how much she loved her, and how much it hurt to love her. Harry had said he had concocted a plan. She closed her eyes briefly, hoping it would be successful. It was reckless of her, but she had to see her.

And if she didn't…

At the thought, Narcissa almost wept uncontrollably, and would have if she were less exposed. Instead, she took in a deep breath and buried her emotions; she smiled at Fleur. _"I apologize… it's the hormones…_ " she said; she had blamed her odd behaviour on her hormones, but knew her hormones weren't entirely culpable for how she felt.

The half-Veela could sympathize. She responded with a warm smile, and said: _"Don't worry. I was a mess with her. I would cry and then laugh the next minute. You seem much more in control."_

Hardly, thought Narcissa to herself.

 _"_ _Oh, and I wish I were more honest too!"_ exclaimed Fleur, drawing her out of her thoughts, secretly aware that the regal witch was becoming heavy-hearted. " _I like to lie, for instance, to my mother-in-law."_

Narcissa's gaze travelled away from Fleur to Molly, who was wearing a very colourful floral dress that nearly made her eyes go cross.

 _"_ _I told her the dress she is wearing is beautiful,"_ continued Fleur, _"but I find it absolutely hideous. I wish she would dress better; not that I care, but it's my mother… she is always hesitant about inviting her to her events, and then Molly thinks she doesn't like her – which isn't the case. Mother has friends who gossip, and she too is just a little superficial. So you see, if I were to tell Molly the truth, she would realize my mother does not hate her; she simply hates her fashion sense. But, I still lie, despite that… and as long as I keep on lying, Molly will never get along with my mother."_

A gentle chuckle escaped from her lips. The French witch's expressions and ways made her rather affable. Her pronunciation and diction hinted at her patrician heritage; perhaps, it was why she not being treated by her as if she were something out of the ordinary. She internally sighed from relief, content to have found someone in the party she could relate to.

Fleur went on: _"Molly is a lovely woman, but you can't blame her for being a little hostile towards you…_ _You're terribly beautiful."_ She smiled. _"My mother would love to converse with you; she likes beautiful people. She's a Veela. I'm sure you know how they are."_

Narcissa returned a smile; she thought of her blonde mother and her depthless character. _"My mother was very much like that too."_

 _"_ _Oh dear. If she was anything like mine, I'm sorry to hear that."_

Narcissa chuckled.

 _"_ _Was she a Veela?"_ Fleur inquired.

 _"_ _No,"_ she answered, shaking her head, " _but there are rumours that the Rosiers, my mother's family, may have some Veela ancestry; nevertheless, my family was… bigoted. They did not talk about such things openly, so I am not sure if there is any truth to the speculation."_

Fleur returned a charming smile. _"I am positive you take after a Veela ancestor. There is no other explanation for your beauty,"_ she flattered. _"If you would like, there is a way to know if you are a Veela._ " She paused for effect. _"Would you like to know?"_

Narcissa quirked a brow, and supposed the half-Veela was being serious. She nodded timidly; her face was written with trepidation.

 _"_ _All right. How terrible is your anger?"_ asked Fleur with mock gravity; her eyes twinkled, giving away the act.

Narcissa couldn't help but burst into graceful laughter; still, she thought she was being unrefined, so she put her hand against her lips to muffle the escaping lyrical sounds. _"Oh... I thought you were being serious, but if you would like to know, it's quite terrible,_ " she replied after a moment in which she had collected herself _. "However, I am not certain if Veela ancestry is to blame. I'm sure you've heard of my father's side, and their propensity to become angry. They are inbred, you see… "_ Which was why her grandfather had permitted her father to marry a Rosier (the Rosiers, being French, were known by English Wizarding gentry for not being the most pureblood of purebloods, but her grandfather had discerned they had run out of options).

 _"_ _Well, you don't look inbred at all, Madame,"_ Fleur remarked.

 _"_ _That's… consoling, dear,"_ said Narcissa, while smirking at the charming half-Veela's witticism. _"I've always wondered,"_ she quipped.

Fleur returned a smirk before groaning, as she had been holding her toddler for some time. She put her free hand against the small of her back. " _I think I should put her on a bed upstairs before my back breaks. Excuse me."_

"Bien sûr, _"_ replied Narcissa. She watched the half-Veela go, and while she did, she felt someone tap her back. Andromeda had strolled towards her from the other side of the counter. Already knowing who she'd see, she turned around to face her sister, and asked, "Well, 'Meda?"

Her sister beamed. "He is… rat-arsed."

Though Narcissa had an idea as to what Andromeda was suggesting, the word was entirely foreign to her. She responded by simply batting her long lashes.

" _Drunk_ , darling. _Gods..._ " Andromeda explained, exasperated by her younger sister's inexperience with street lingo, "so I think you'll be able to look into his mind without any difficulty. I don't think he'll notice."

Silver eyes glinted. Narcissa gave one of her trademark smirks. "Good."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

So, I am an absolute hypocrite. When I tell you I might not be updating for some time due to errands I must attend to, expect that I am lying. I will actually update more frequently. Why? Because I'm a terribly good procrastinator. In fact, I'm so good at procrastinating that I should be awarded for it.

 _Anyways,_ I do hope you enjoyed this chapter. I had written some of it already, and finished the rest. More will come when... they do.

AND HAPPY EARLY MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Bye for now, my peeps.


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